it doesn't bother you
By: Alexis Simmerman
I had always known I was different from others my age, even when I was young. Of course, I didn’t understand it in the beginning. I didn’t think much of it when I wandered off during kindergarten to read, and I trusted my parents to do what was right for me, even if I didn’t understand. I always knew that deep down there was something different about the way I acted, the way I thought, and the way I talked. I never understood other people very well, and I often had a hard time fitting in. I knew my upbringing was a little different than my peers and I didn’t have access to some of the pleasures they had, and I never saw the point in it. I was able to do things like solve one side of a rubix cube and build many large puzzles simultaneously with ease, even though others found it hard. I had never really thought much of those skills, because I thought that they were normal. I just thought that everyone saw the world in a similar way, and never questioned it. When I was old enough to understand, I learned that I had autism and ADHD, but it never really bothered me. I had known I was different from the start, so it was more of an explanation rather than a revelation. Besides, there were plenty of hints in my life that could have told me, had I thought to look into it more. The medicine I took daily, the doctors I saw, the 504’s, the therapies I went to, I knew it was all for something, and now I understood what. Besides, it wasn’t like it hurt me in any way. I was fully functional, and I never had much of a problem with my studies, so I never really had much of a problem with my disorder. I had geared my disorder into my studies, and used it to my advantage, becoming an excellent student. I had a separate way of looking at the world that I was honestly very grateful for. While I couldn’t understand social cues well, I could still learn from watching others, and then applying what I had learned to my environment. I had been living with these conditions for my whole life, so what was so bad about it? There was really nothing I could do about it, and why cry over spilled milk?
I was never really interested in anything my peers were. From the beginning, I had always had more of a fascination with books than anything else. I loved being pulled into a fantasy world by those books, and I was often found curled up with a good book. I often read during recess rather than run around since I was never one for physical activity. I had many other little obsessions such as the color pink, cute things, and smooth and soft things, but fantasy was the main one. I always had a wild imagination, and would often talk to the characters of my books when I was alone, creating adventures for them to embark on, which was often because I didn’t have a phone, and I was afraid of social media and it’s dangers. I still do that honestly, and that’s actually the time when I think my speech is at it’s clearest. When I realized that I could write my own stories it was like a giant door was unlocked for me. I didn’t know how much that revelation would shape who I am now, but I didn’t care about that back then. I remember the day I had first gotten on my mother’s computer, and opened the word app for the first time. I had always had terrible handwriting, so this was the only way I could write legibly. From then on, I wrote whenever I could, my big imagination putting words onto the page. I created my own worlds, filled with magic, mystery, and life, and I made a special bubble for each of them in my head, like a storm in a bottle. It was freeing, ratifying. When I had gotten my own chromebook, my passion was suddenly fueled as I no longer needed permission to write. I started to hone my skills, learn things from the books I read, and began to construct complex and personal characters that I very quickly became attached to. I had always stuck with fantasy, as none of the other genres had ever striked my interest. I was more at home with the thoughts of magic and far off lands. Yet, I knew that those things were considered childish at my age, but that didn’t bother me. I had never cared much for what others thought of me, and I figured that if it made me happy and it didn’t hurt anyone, why should I stop? Of course, I had very few people to share my passion with, but I had grown used to that, and I knew that I had put my heart and soul into my work, and that was enough for me.
I remember when I had first started to notice my sensitivity. The lunchroom, loud and large, had suddenly become too much for me. I had taken to covering my ears, just to relieve the pain. It made it impossible to eat, but it was better than suffering. I also found that the noise in the classroom had become just too much for me. I couldn’t focus, I couldn’t think, and I had snapped at them once. If I did end up going home with a headache, then I was in for a night of suffering. On a good night, it would just be a headache that I could sleep off, but on some nights it would get worse. I would get sick, and end up hurling in the middle of the night. I had grown quite well acquainted with nausea at this time, and I knew the signs of an episode pretty well. Pretty soon, measures were taken to help with my problem. I became permitted to wear earmuffs during the school day, simply to control the noise level. I realize that it might not have done much, but it was a comfort to have at least some security against the pain. It has even become one of my coping mechanisms to plug my ears, even if there isn’t any noise. It makes me feel safe. I had also been allowed to eat my lunch at a separate table, away from all the noise, it was lonely at times, but it never really bothered me. I was finally at peace, and was able to eat my lunch, back when I still ate lunch that is. When I found that you no longer needed to eat lunch, I started to use that time to write, to escape from the stress of my day just for a little bit. It was peaceful and productive for me, and I never wanted it to change.
I was self assured, intelligent, and happy with my life, despite how unconventional it was. Yet I knew that no matter how happy someone was with their life, there was always something they wanted. Some slight imperfection that could make their life just shy of being perfect, and you knew that for me it was no exception.
I had never really understood people very well. I never shared many of their interests, activities, or passions. It was fine when I was a kid. Childhood is simple. Kids never think about their differences. They don’t care about politics, race, or gender as long as it amuses them. Yet as I grew older, I noticed how people started to drift away. People who had once been considered my friends suddenly stopped engaging with me. Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I shouldn’t have monologued about my interests so much. Maybe I should have worked harder to realize what was happening. But I was a child. How could I possibly have known? Soon I found myself being bullied, not just once, but twice. It wasn’t anything physical, and they were dealt with pretty swiftly since I had always had a good relationship with teachers. I can’t even remember exactly what it was that happened, but it had always stuck to the back of my mind because both times I was just trying to be nice. Maybe it was out of spite? Maybe what I thought was being nice wasn’t? I will never know. As time wore on, I drew myself more and more into the bubble of my mind, preferring to spend my time there rather than with other people. It was warmer there, happy, safe. Where no one could hurt me, and I didn’t have to try so hard to be understood. When I moved to a separated table at lunch, those who I saw as my friends offered to visit me. To hang out once in a while. It was a charitable offer, and they did keep their word, for a time. However, the visits became less and less frequent. First it was once a week, then it was once a month, once in a couple months, once a year, and then they just stopped entirely. I was left to eat alone, and I doubted that anyone noticed or even cared. In class it wasn’t much better. I had never been the best at teamwork, and social interactions for I was strained to say the least, but I could still manage it. Then came Tech Ed. I still can’t remember why I joined the class. It was loud, and certainly nothing I would be interested in normally. Yet I remember just how much of a nightmare group work was. I remember this one group project where my group not only shouldered me with all the paperwork, took all the fun work for themselves, wouldn’t listen to me, and even tried to exclude me, but they also opened my chromebook when I wasn’t around, the one object that I felt was mine to express myself on. After that, my already terrible teamwork skills went on a downward spiral. I got stressed easily by my teammates, and it became a nightmare that honestly feels impossible to describe at times. People became loud, rude, and crazy in my eyes, which scared me quite a bit as a naturally quiet and calm person. Then came High School, one of the most rigid and cold social experiences for most, but for me, I honestly didn’t notice much of a change. I had never fit into any groups before, so I didn’t expect to now. High School was just a larger scale middle school in the social area, because nothing changed. I tried to join clubs, and I did find a creative writing club, but even still, there are only so many people in the club, and by this point my social skills were so damaged I didn’t even know how to approach someone new normally. Sharing and talking to people became one of my biggest hurdles, and I still haven’t jumped over it yet. Yet that doesn’t bother me, at least, that’s what I keep telling myself. I’m used to it by now. I know the routine by now. They approach me, and since I was raised to be polite, I engage them the best I can. I use my inferences to navigate the interaction the best I can, and I do my best to fulfill whatever need they talked to me for, and we say our goodbyes. Then they never talk to me again. No second contact, no hi, nothing. They never stay. They never stay long enough to learn about me, understand me. They never take the time to listen to me, to understand that while I might not completely understand how to be a friend, I am willing to try and learn. I don’t promise myself to be perfect, but I’m willing to try and get better. No one’s really taken the time to learn what I really need in a friend at the moment. It might seem unconventional for friendship, to not have parties and things like that, whatever it is that friendship is now, but I guess I was never a conventional person. Eventually, I just grew numb to it all. If it was just going to crash and burn everytime, then what was the point of getting my hopes up? It was easier to not expect anything big when I talked to people because I knew they were never going to stick around. I still tried from time to time, but I had never gotten my hopes up. Walking through the halls, it sometimes feels like everyone around me are ghosts. I barely notice them, and they barely notice me. There are a few people who stand out to me more than others. The people I used to consider my friends, at least the ones who are still around, I do recognize them. We exchange a few passing words on the rare occasions they do notice me, but I figure that friend isn’t exactly the right word for them now. They’ve become more like aquatinences, people I know, but never really interact with, which is the majority of the people I know honestly. I’ve grown used to it by now. I’ve accepted that this is the way my life is. I guess I’ll never know how to go from bronze to gold.
I was never really interested in anything my peers were. From the beginning, I had always had more of a fascination with books than anything else. I loved being pulled into a fantasy world by those books, and I was often found curled up with a good book. I often read during recess rather than run around since I was never one for physical activity. I had many other little obsessions such as the color pink, cute things, and smooth and soft things, but fantasy was the main one. I always had a wild imagination, and would often talk to the characters of my books when I was alone, creating adventures for them to embark on, which was often because I didn’t have a phone, and I was afraid of social media and it’s dangers. I still do that honestly, and that’s actually the time when I think my speech is at it’s clearest. When I realized that I could write my own stories it was like a giant door was unlocked for me. I didn’t know how much that revelation would shape who I am now, but I didn’t care about that back then. I remember the day I had first gotten on my mother’s computer, and opened the word app for the first time. I had always had terrible handwriting, so this was the only way I could write legibly. From then on, I wrote whenever I could, my big imagination putting words onto the page. I created my own worlds, filled with magic, mystery, and life, and I made a special bubble for each of them in my head, like a storm in a bottle. It was freeing, ratifying. When I had gotten my own chromebook, my passion was suddenly fueled as I no longer needed permission to write. I started to hone my skills, learn things from the books I read, and began to construct complex and personal characters that I very quickly became attached to. I had always stuck with fantasy, as none of the other genres had ever striked my interest. I was more at home with the thoughts of magic and far off lands. Yet, I knew that those things were considered childish at my age, but that didn’t bother me. I had never cared much for what others thought of me, and I figured that if it made me happy and it didn’t hurt anyone, why should I stop? Of course, I had very few people to share my passion with, but I had grown used to that, and I knew that I had put my heart and soul into my work, and that was enough for me.
I remember when I had first started to notice my sensitivity. The lunchroom, loud and large, had suddenly become too much for me. I had taken to covering my ears, just to relieve the pain. It made it impossible to eat, but it was better than suffering. I also found that the noise in the classroom had become just too much for me. I couldn’t focus, I couldn’t think, and I had snapped at them once. If I did end up going home with a headache, then I was in for a night of suffering. On a good night, it would just be a headache that I could sleep off, but on some nights it would get worse. I would get sick, and end up hurling in the middle of the night. I had grown quite well acquainted with nausea at this time, and I knew the signs of an episode pretty well. Pretty soon, measures were taken to help with my problem. I became permitted to wear earmuffs during the school day, simply to control the noise level. I realize that it might not have done much, but it was a comfort to have at least some security against the pain. It has even become one of my coping mechanisms to plug my ears, even if there isn’t any noise. It makes me feel safe. I had also been allowed to eat my lunch at a separate table, away from all the noise, it was lonely at times, but it never really bothered me. I was finally at peace, and was able to eat my lunch, back when I still ate lunch that is. When I found that you no longer needed to eat lunch, I started to use that time to write, to escape from the stress of my day just for a little bit. It was peaceful and productive for me, and I never wanted it to change.
I was self assured, intelligent, and happy with my life, despite how unconventional it was. Yet I knew that no matter how happy someone was with their life, there was always something they wanted. Some slight imperfection that could make their life just shy of being perfect, and you knew that for me it was no exception.
I had never really understood people very well. I never shared many of their interests, activities, or passions. It was fine when I was a kid. Childhood is simple. Kids never think about their differences. They don’t care about politics, race, or gender as long as it amuses them. Yet as I grew older, I noticed how people started to drift away. People who had once been considered my friends suddenly stopped engaging with me. Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I shouldn’t have monologued about my interests so much. Maybe I should have worked harder to realize what was happening. But I was a child. How could I possibly have known? Soon I found myself being bullied, not just once, but twice. It wasn’t anything physical, and they were dealt with pretty swiftly since I had always had a good relationship with teachers. I can’t even remember exactly what it was that happened, but it had always stuck to the back of my mind because both times I was just trying to be nice. Maybe it was out of spite? Maybe what I thought was being nice wasn’t? I will never know. As time wore on, I drew myself more and more into the bubble of my mind, preferring to spend my time there rather than with other people. It was warmer there, happy, safe. Where no one could hurt me, and I didn’t have to try so hard to be understood. When I moved to a separated table at lunch, those who I saw as my friends offered to visit me. To hang out once in a while. It was a charitable offer, and they did keep their word, for a time. However, the visits became less and less frequent. First it was once a week, then it was once a month, once in a couple months, once a year, and then they just stopped entirely. I was left to eat alone, and I doubted that anyone noticed or even cared. In class it wasn’t much better. I had never been the best at teamwork, and social interactions for I was strained to say the least, but I could still manage it. Then came Tech Ed. I still can’t remember why I joined the class. It was loud, and certainly nothing I would be interested in normally. Yet I remember just how much of a nightmare group work was. I remember this one group project where my group not only shouldered me with all the paperwork, took all the fun work for themselves, wouldn’t listen to me, and even tried to exclude me, but they also opened my chromebook when I wasn’t around, the one object that I felt was mine to express myself on. After that, my already terrible teamwork skills went on a downward spiral. I got stressed easily by my teammates, and it became a nightmare that honestly feels impossible to describe at times. People became loud, rude, and crazy in my eyes, which scared me quite a bit as a naturally quiet and calm person. Then came High School, one of the most rigid and cold social experiences for most, but for me, I honestly didn’t notice much of a change. I had never fit into any groups before, so I didn’t expect to now. High School was just a larger scale middle school in the social area, because nothing changed. I tried to join clubs, and I did find a creative writing club, but even still, there are only so many people in the club, and by this point my social skills were so damaged I didn’t even know how to approach someone new normally. Sharing and talking to people became one of my biggest hurdles, and I still haven’t jumped over it yet. Yet that doesn’t bother me, at least, that’s what I keep telling myself. I’m used to it by now. I know the routine by now. They approach me, and since I was raised to be polite, I engage them the best I can. I use my inferences to navigate the interaction the best I can, and I do my best to fulfill whatever need they talked to me for, and we say our goodbyes. Then they never talk to me again. No second contact, no hi, nothing. They never stay. They never stay long enough to learn about me, understand me. They never take the time to listen to me, to understand that while I might not completely understand how to be a friend, I am willing to try and learn. I don’t promise myself to be perfect, but I’m willing to try and get better. No one’s really taken the time to learn what I really need in a friend at the moment. It might seem unconventional for friendship, to not have parties and things like that, whatever it is that friendship is now, but I guess I was never a conventional person. Eventually, I just grew numb to it all. If it was just going to crash and burn everytime, then what was the point of getting my hopes up? It was easier to not expect anything big when I talked to people because I knew they were never going to stick around. I still tried from time to time, but I had never gotten my hopes up. Walking through the halls, it sometimes feels like everyone around me are ghosts. I barely notice them, and they barely notice me. There are a few people who stand out to me more than others. The people I used to consider my friends, at least the ones who are still around, I do recognize them. We exchange a few passing words on the rare occasions they do notice me, but I figure that friend isn’t exactly the right word for them now. They’ve become more like aquatinences, people I know, but never really interact with, which is the majority of the people I know honestly. I’ve grown used to it by now. I’ve accepted that this is the way my life is. I guess I’ll never know how to go from bronze to gold.
Alexis is a student at Linganore High School. She has both ADHD and Autism, which has shaped her perception and struggles quite a lot. She loves to read and write, so she decided to write about her own experiences, and many of the challenges and insecurities she's had to deal with.