For the majority of my life I used to think that I am crazy; that there is something seriously wrong with me, because I couldn’t understand the polar opposites that dominated who I was. I used to refer to them as the light and the dark side.
Being diagnosed made me realize that it was my ADHD side I labeled as the “dark” side and the autism side as the “light” one. Why did I see it that way?
There has always been an internal tug-of-war inside of me. My autistic side craved structure, was rigid and needed to follow rituals and rules, while my ADHD brain needed spontaneity, was fearless, despised rules, was rebellious and often reckless. I would get bored easily but really couldn’t stand mixing things up. I’d want to follow a structured day, but then impulsively get sidetracked and abandon any plans or lists I’ve made. The same was true for my communication. I’d impulsively spew “honesty and truth,” then analyze for hours, days and even months how I could have come across better or avoided a confrontation. I learned to fear my dark side, because she seemed to get me in trouble and would do things that were, at times, downright dangerous. She was represented in my colorful exterior, sporting blue, purple, bright red or black hair with pink streaks. I would often kill my curiosity and simply avoid people and situations that might lead me to act impulsively or cause me harm. The advantage was that I never really experimented with drugs or drinking alcohol, because I knew that finding anything that would quiet my noisy brain would have been dangerous.
Both traits contributed to me becoming a perfectionist. An autistic trait drives me toward thoroughness and attention to detail, and my ADHD side had to be perfect due to the constant imposter syndrome and fear of failure I experience. The sensory world is another set of contradictions. I crave and even seek out certain stimulating environments like a conference, until I arrive. Suddenly, everything is too loud, too bright and no longer manageable. While I used to and still use certain stimming techniques that don’t get noticed (picking my cuticles, rubbing my fingers, counting silently items in a room, etc.), inevitably I’d reach a point of having to flee. I started calling it my crab walk. Sideways stepping away until I could disappear behind a wall/door, etc. and run to my hotel room. Luckily, people always thought it was funny that “now you see her, and then she’s gone.” But I felt shame and embarrassment.
I was so good at masking that everyone believed me to be an extravert — which couldn’t be further from the truth. Even when I was tested, I had to actively think about answering without masking, which was difficult to remember, because I had masked my entire life. I had to really remember what I used to do and trained away, or what my response would be if no one was around. Having all the information now does not necessarily fix what decades of masking have damaged, but cognitive behavioral therapy, daily meditation, exercise and medication have given me tools to recognize my patterns more easily and change my responses and behaviors.
Turns out, there’s no dark and light side. Simply a person living at the intersection of two overlapping yet distinct neurotypes.
