Page 43 of Tilly in Technicolor
One of my more personal posts has blown up a bit, and my brain feels like an oversaturated sponge as I weed through the replies and DMs.
… A neurodivergency diagnosis seems to be taken as a burden to everyone but the owner of the brain in question. When I was told I have ADHD, it was like a map had been handed to me, showing the path of my circuit boards and looping wires. Do I still get lost up there? Of course. But at least now I approach it with a sort of… peace. I know that my makeup is different. Not wrong. Just different. I’m not lazy or undisciplined or defiant—things I’ve been called my entire life—I don’t have the tools of executive functioning. It isn’t that I lack attention, I don’t know how to manage it.
While to me, my diagnosis felt like freedom, my mom cried like I’d been given a week to live. She went from exasperated sighs and outbursts of annoyance at my forgetfulness or voyages into hyperfocus, to coddling me to the point of suffocation, lamenting how hard it is “for the whole family” that I have ADHD.
Why is it that when we talk about neurodivergencies, it’s always in the scope of the neurotypical’s perspective? Any suggested reading is about a mom who overcame her child’s this, or a spouse that dealt with their partner’s that. Why aren’t these guides from the voices of people living with the conditions? Why do we care more about the supposed burden family and friends feel they endure being in proximity to an ADHD person, instead of the experiences of the people actually dealing with it? Why do we talk about it in hushed whispers instead of joyous celebrations of what different brains can offer the world?
My brain isn’t broken. I don’t need a cure. I just need compassion.
Pretty much overnight, I went from a few hundred followers on Babble to thousands—which is simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating. The more vulnerable I get in my writing, the more people connect with it.
A lot of people are telling me about their experiences with ADHD, or how they’ve been made to feel like their experiences living with it don’t matter compared to others who talk over them. The post hasn’t been spared from ableist assholes talking about how ADHD is overdiagnosed, some people even claiming it’s some sort of fake, political propaganda. But others are quick to stand up and shut that down. It makes sharp and wonderful emotions swell in my chest when others with brains like mine waste no time defending what I wrote.
All of it has me feeling exposed and alive. It’s kind of… a lot. But in a good way. A way that jolts my fingers into dancing across the keyboard. Exposing myself in the hopes that it makes one more person feel seen.
And, of course, everything I write is influenced by how damn romantic Europe is.
I fall in love with every city I see. Brussels. Zurich. Luxembourg. Amsterdam. I cry when we take off for a new spot, never ready to depart, no matter how many hours I’ve spent in the current one. I leave a little piece of myself in each, marking them all as a tiny home for my needy heart.
Ollie and I have also come to some sort of truce. We bicker as frequently as ever, but there’s an undercurrent of understanding there. We get each other, at least a bit.
But we’re also keeping our distance. And, at least on my end, it’s intentional. I’m trying to check every dangerous impulse I have to cling to Ollie like Saran Wrap.
Getting too close to him would be a mess. Ollie is buttoned up and tidy and organized and has a plan. I’m restless anddirectionless and don’t know what I’m doing when my tourist visa expires in about a month and a half. It would be pointless to get attached to someone so different from me. Someone so set and sturdy. I’d just be a tornado that whips through and screws things up.
We got into Copenhagen early this morning, and I’m stuffing my feet into my sneakers to go explore when my phone rings. Mom’s name flashes across the screen, and I let out a deep breath. I’ve been avoiding her calls as much as possible, until Mona practically ties me to a chair and forces me to talk to her. But her texts come regularly throughout the day, each one a passive-aggressive nick in my skin.
I glance up from the screen. Ollie’s in the corner, headphones on and focusing on some editing project. I could take the call in here, but I decide to scoot into Mona’s room. She and Amina are out at lunch with some friend from graduate school, leaving me and Ollie to our own devices.
After flopping dramatically onto the bed and waiting till the last ring, I accept the call.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Tilly! How are you? Have you been behaving yourself?”
“Uh… good,” I say, unsure how to fully answer that. I could have the manners of a Victorian baroness and I’m sure my mom would still be able to find fault in me. “How’s Dad?” I manage to ask, the silence stretching way too long for comfort.
“He’s doing well,” Mom says, in her lovely, crisp voice. “Been very busy at work lately. He’s gotten a surplus of new clients that have been keeping him occupied.”
“Who doesn’t love a surplus?” I say, as if I have any clue what she’s talking about.
There’s that silence again.
“How’s the trip?” Mom asks. “How’s Mona? It sounds likeshe’s had some incredible meetings with investors of late. I imagine you’re learning a lot.”
Mmmmm I wouldn’t exactly call any of her meetings incredible. And they definitely weren’t with investors. But I’m not about to correct Mom. “Yeah, Mona’s doing great. I’m pretty much obsessed with Europe at this point. Everything is so freaking gorgeous and historic and just…amazing.Every time we get somewhere new I’m like, ‘I don’t wanna leeeeeeave.’”
The conversation halts. Again. I’m actually not sure I’m capable of surviving any more silence on this phone call, yet I persist.
“Well, it’s wonderful that you’re having fun, but I hope you’re being realistic about the trip,” Mom finally says, only sort of easing my suffering.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I hope you’re being serious about your future and not looking at this like some big free vacation,” she says. “This trip is supposed to show you the benefits of hard work, not some free-for-all. Mona’s success wasn’t handed to her, she worked for it. And you’ll need to work for yours, too. This summer wasn’t supposed to send you further into Tilly-La-La-Land but show you how important it is you go to school and get a practical degree.”
Now this silence? It’s on me. Because, really, what am I supposed to say to that?
“Are you still there?” Mom asks after a minute.
