Neurodiversity, Victimhood, and Motherhood

I'm sitting here, in the swiftly cooling porch, with a cat next to me, thinking of neurodiversity. The book I'm reading is We're All Neurodiverse by Sonny Jane Wise. This is an affiliate link to the book on Bookshop.org, that supports small bookstores. Buying the book through them will support a small bookstore and give Clearview Works a bit of the money.

Anyway, almost from page 1 I was all hell yeah! This book talks about how we are each a unique individual with our own forms of brain-spiciness. It guides the reader towards a more accepting and compassionate approach to neurodivergency where you shift your thinking about conditions that are often seen as disorders (autism, ADHD, schizophrenia, among others) to consider them differences. We are a diverse species, with variations of every physical aspect of us around the entire globe. Why wouldn't our brains be diverse?

I wonder how being neurodiverse intersects with trauma? Thinking and behaving differently from neurotypical people, not understanding or being able to comply with social norms makes it easier to be victimized. What is it about neurodiversity that allows us to be preyed on? My therapist agrees that it would be a good idea to be tested for autism and ADHD. While I wait for that I read about them, study them, listen to personal accounts of them. I hyper fixate, which says more for the probability that I am autistic with ADHD, then just about anything else. I wonder how much of my trauma was shaped by neurodiversity, either my own or the perpetrator's. I think of my mom and what she must have gone through. I share quite a few traits with her, but I manage my more destructive aspects. I think of the language my household uses compared with my mom's. We speak more plainly, without subtext, where I would have to guess the threat level of my mom's mood by how loudly she slammed things around the kitchen. Would I have had a better relationship with my parents if they were more aware of their own neurodiversity? I think of Chick's relationship with her mom and I wonder what that's like. I'm listening to a book about a woman who was diagnosed with autism when she was a teen, and I marvel at the positive relationship the author displays.

Maybe I'm thinking about Mother's Day coming up. I find myself reflecting on who I was before I got psychological help, what kind of mom I was, compared with who I am now. I think of my mom and wish she would get help herself. I think about the generations of mothers who had to use their best instincts and social rules to raise their children. I think of all the anger packed into my matrilineal line. I'm glad I am able to get help, to become a better person while raising a pretty damn good person.

I'm rambling now, so I'm going to close here.