Neurodivergent Umbrella

About Atypical Erin

While this narrative doesn't provide an exhaustive account of my personal experience, it serves as a small window into my life and the journey that led me to seek therapy and a diagnosis. It's a fragment of my story that I'm choosing to share, nurturing the hope that it may resonate with others embarking on similar journeys, offering encouragement, validation and perhaps the feeling of companionship along the way. These experiences have shaped who I am and opened my eyes to the support and understanding I wish I had access to earlier.

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In the spirit of transparency, let's dive into one of the more confusing aspects of my life: my inability to maintain eye contact. This is a behavior that's always been a part of me. I can trace it back to my first vivid memory from sixth grade when my best friend asked me if something was wrong with her hair. I was utterly baffled by the question. As it turned out, my continuous glancing upwards had sparked her curiosity. People continue to ask me this question, and it took me over three decades to understand why. I struggle with eye contact, a common trait among individuals on the autism spectrum. Our brains are often wired to interpret things literally, and for the longest time, when asked, "Can you make eye contact?" I used to think, "Yes, I can." It wasn't until recently that I realized my pattern of breaking eye contact by shifting my gaze to hairlines. It was an enlightening moment that made me say, "Ohhhhh, I see now."

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Then there's the phenomenon of stimming, another aspect of my life that's become all too familiar to me. I have a repertoire of hundreds of stim behaviors. These behaviors are integral to my existence, from rocking to fidgeting to an incessant need to touch my ears. Regrettably, not all stim behaviors are harmless. One harmful stim behavior I struggle with is skin picking, which has left my face marred with scars and led me to seek coverage with Seint makeup. However, most stims are incredibly beneficial. They are self-soothing behaviors that help regulate my brain activity and ground me when things get too overwhelming.

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On the other hand, sensory processing disorder is arguably the most challenging part of my life. I often find my hands clenched into fists, a subconscious attempt to avoid unpleasant tactile sensations. I feel a perpetual ache in my palms, and the mere sight of velvet can send shivers up my spine. Sensory discomfort tends to compound, and what feels tolerable one moment can swiftly transition into something unbearable when paired with another source of discomfort. Loud settings necessitate earplugs, and the ability to focus on multiple simultaneous conversations is beyond my grasp.

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Another distinct feature of my life is the prevalence of direct communication. The phrases “You don’t know how you come across” or “You’re a direct communicator” have been recurrent themes in my life. Each conversation has been a constant negotiation about whether it's my turn to talk, if I've dominated the conversation, or even if my thoughts are worth sharing. I vacillated between interpreting this as praise or mild criticism for a while. Still, I never fully grasped its significance until I stumbled upon a definition on www.goodtherapy.com: "Direct communication involves saying what you think and feel, marked by active listening and effective feedback. There is no pretense of hidden messages." This, I thought, is exactly how I want to communicate.

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Embracing my differences hasn't always been easy, but I've learned to leverage these unique traits to my advantage. I am blessed with a wonderfully supportive husband who fell in love with my quirky nature and a thriving career that benefits from my unusual blend of creativity and process-driven mindset. Each day, I grow more confident and comfortable in my skin, celebrating my neurodivergence in all its complexity and beauty.