Je Suis La Résistance

I’ve written about my unique learning style before. I was born in 1972, which places me squarely in the middle of Generation X (we’ve recently been aptly called The Lost Generation). Had I been born a Baby Boomer, I would have been labeled with Minimal Brain Dysfunction Syndrome or the later-used Hyperkinetic Impulse Disorder. The Western solution for my “disorder” was the usual psychological and psychiatric Molotov cocktail given to all “disorderly” Boomers and Gen Xers: a cheap blend of physical, emotional, mental, spiritual, and sexual shame. I was one of the fortunate ones where I was only spanked a couple of times, so at least there was no sexual abuse (at least none I can remember in my mind). I was most definitely abused emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. If I had been born a little later and fallen in the late Gen X or Millennial period, while the cocktail may have been given a kinder and gentler name called Neurodivergence, it would have most assuredly been spiked with Ritalin.

Both of my parents worked, and my dad was especially focused on building his research and teaching career in physics. I resonate with his commitment to his work now that I’m in my 50s, but I couldn’t even begin to understand this kind of commitment until I was in my 40s (which is part of why I am such a late bloomer when it comes to work). So while I was deeply loved and provided for, I was low-level abandoned after school and most summer days. As challenging as it was for someone like me to grow up in the 70s and 80s, I’m thankful because it could have been a whole lot worse. My learning style and my imagination were particularly hard for my dad. But being left alone most of the time, when I wasn’t at school, meant that I could play, dream, imagine, feel, act, sing, and think in my own unique ways… all by myself. My inner world was my Eden, and I manifested my paradise in the outer world, no holds barred, until 5th grade. That’s when I became self-conscious, and school became a living nightmare.

I might have been able to pretend well enough to get by had it not been for math. The goddamn math. I never understood why all the adults were so compulsory with it and why they tried with all their might to force it on me. I now get why many people love it. It’s an analytical kind of music and poetry, and it’s highly practical and useful. So while I still have no great love for it, I’ve developed a deep appreciation. But from 5th grade on, there was not a single teacher or authority figure who was going to get me to like it, let alone learn it. You would have been hard-pressed to find a more punk rock student than me from 5th through 12th grade. I didn’t need a Clash or Patti Smith t-shirt. My body language and behavior screamed, “Je suis la résistance!”

In 5th and 6th grade, I just didn’t understand what the big deal was. Why everyone was making such a big deal about math and homework. I simply refused to do any of it. In those 7th-10th grade years, I was actually scared of my dad, not because he was angry with me but because I could feel his deep disappointment in my lack of caring in the subjects he held so dearly… and I really, really wanted my dad to like me. By the time I was in 11th grade, I was exhausted by all of the energy I’d poured into attempting to connect with him and getting him to like me. I began telling him to fuck off in my own way. I never actually told him to fuck off until I was almost 40. I never found expletives very useful. I knew how to win an argument with him through manipulation, and I could be brutally cold toward him. I still have this capability of brutality with my words if I don’t remain conscious when I perceive someone is attempting to back me into a corner. I’ve learned the hard way that the best thing I can usually do for myself and others is to just walk away from a fight. Irritation/friction is a whole different thing. That can be extremely useful for creativity. I always remember Bono crying out at the end of Sunday Bloody Sunday at a live U2 show I was at, “Compromise… it’s not a dirty word.” Every time I feel the fight in me coming up, I say these words to myself because fighting for me has rarely been productive. I’ve tended to treat every fight like it’s the shootout at the O.K. Corral. It’s all or nothing. Kill or be killed.

But I digress. Back to neurodivergence. Personally, I abhor most labels of any kind because I understand why they’re employed. Of course, I want a bottle of liquid underneath my sink to have a “poisonous” label on it to keep people safe. Music genres are a kind of label that may sometimes be useful. There are one or two genres that I don’t gravitate toward, and because of the sheer volume of music there is to discover now, it’s helpful when I can see one of those genres and just move on. But I love it when people break all the rules of genre. I would love Beyoncé’s Cowboy Carter album for this reason alone, but it is a fantastic piece of work in its own right.

So neurodivergence for me is just another label that is given to anyone society deems noncompliant. See my dilemma? I’ve never been compliant. I don’t ever want to be. I believe compliance is a huge part of how the world got into the mess we’re in. Everyone trying to fit in and be just like everyone else when the truth is, no two people on the planet have ever been or ever will be the same! So much needless pain and suffering continues to ensue due to compliance. Please hear me out. I am not talking about safety and caution. I am not suggesting there shouldn’t be restrictions, oversight, and regulations on activities and organizations that could potentially harm others. But I do believe if individuals took ownership and responsibility for their own lives… their own learning style, education, desires, dreams, gifts, suffering, joy, sexual and creative expression (which includes how they write and speak), then regulation and oversight would be less required and much easier to manage.

On a personal level, if the society in which I live wants to label me as neurodivergent, and more specifically, as someone who struggles/suffers with ADHD, it is free to do so. But I reject this label for myself. My name is Chris Linebarger and it is not a curse to be me. I love myself. I love the way I think. I love the way I get incredibly excited (aka, nearly hyperventilate) when expressing my ideas as a child would. I love how sensitive I am and the way I feel. I love the way I speak, the way I write, and the way I sing. I love my artistic sense. I love the way I care so deeply for people. I love how much I love my wife, my grown daughters, their partners, and my grandchildren… to the point where it feels like my heart just might burst. I love the way I am enraged by the suffering and injustice done to humans by other humans (usually in the name of whatever god they serve). I love the way my body looks, especially my soft, Buddha belly. I love how much I love to wear bright, colorful socks with pink polka dots. I love the way I dance to any kind of music as if I’m in the year 1987 dancing to Depeche Mode, Pet Shop Boys, or Erasure. I never actually danced when I was in high school in 1987. I was too self-conscious and scared of not fitting in, so I’ve been making up for lost time.

I love what turns me on and what turns me off. If I were neurotypical, I wouldn’t be me, and that would be a shame because I love my life.

The great irony, of course, is that neurotypicality is a myth created by patriarchy. There is no such thing as normal. There are only those who have known this truth from the beginning (a precious few, the guru types who typically got/get themselves martyred), those of us who have learned over a lifetime of suffering, and those who refuse to admit (or cannot) that this is a huge part of being human. Each of us is unique. Which means I am alone in the world. I remember the first time this consciously sank in. It terrified me to the extent that I had a two-month panic attack. I came in alone, and I am going out alone. But in my aloneness, I am just like every single human being. So while I may be alone, I need not be lonely.