I'm Grateful For How My Brain Works
I have dealt with all the ways I was different my whole life.
In kindergarten, my classroom performance had already gotten me labelled as the “rowdy delinquent.” One week short of my tenth birthday, I was stuck in a tree. And to pass the time, I started having a conversation with myself. I assigned my brain a larger-than-life nickname when it became obvious that I had inherited a brain that was the embodiment of slapstick: Charlie Chaplin.
When I was diagnosed with ADHD and dyslexia, treatments were long, frustrating and full of setbacks: special ed, failed exams and detentions that had me reciting the rosary during recess. My patience and faith were stretched to the limit by the time I was thirteen. I had frizzy hair, acne, and a retainer; the burden of caring for a brain that was disorganized and socially anxious was wearing me thin. I completed therapy, mediation—everything my counsellors suggested. But no matter how many calendars I bought, my brain was the way it was, and it was not going to change.