Swipe Left On Perfection

# Patching Together A Neurospicy Brain

Today my brain is a crowded group chat—  

a librarian shushing a marching band,  

a raccoon with glitter in its pockets  

high-fiving a spreadsheet that wants a hug. 

Autistic me builds cathedrals of pattern,  

file folders lined up like stars on duty.  

ADHD me arrives on a skateboard,  

throws confetti at the moon, and leaves behind the skateboard in all of the commotion. 

Together we’re a duet: hummingbird and grandfather clock—  

one blurring the edges, one tracing the lines.

People used to read me like a map with oceans missing,  tapping the “normal” button like it needed batteries.  

I handed out user manuals with the middle pages shuffled,  

sticky notes saying “some assembly required, bring snacks.”  

They’d squint at the legend; I’d point to the view.

Inside, it’s a tug-of-war on roller skates:  

hyperfocus latches on like a friendly octopus,  

while curiosity cartwheels through every doorway.  

One side loves the satisfying click of a perfect routine;  

the other keeps a suitcase of fireworks labeled “later.”

Sometimes the volume knob of the sun gets stuck on fourteen,  so I hire tiny bouncers to guard the velvet rope of my ears.  

Stimming is jazz hands for my nervous system—  

a drum solo that tells the storm, “I’ve got this.”

One side loves the satisfying click of a perfect routine;  the other keeps adding jazz solos to the to-do list.  

We don’t fight so much now—we jam.

I tried to camouflage in beige,  

but I’m really highlighter yellow with opinions,  

pinging like unsolicited software updates.  

Now I recycle other people’s expectations into paper cranes  

and let them fly off the edge of my comfort zone.

My calendar is a collage; my to-do list doodles back.

Dopamine is a fickle landlord;  

I pay rent in enthusiasm and weird facts.  

I don’t need translation, just room—  

a desk for my patterns, a trampoline for my sparks.

I am the push and the pull:  

a swing set under a meteor shower,  

the checklist’s crisp checkmark and  

the derailed thought train honking happily past geese and wildflowers.  

Authentic looks like this: glimmers of joy, pockets of texture,  no apology for the volume of my wonder.

Yes, I miss exits sometimes and invent shortcuts that are just longcuts,  

but I also find picnic spots no map remembers.  

Yes, I script my comfort and freestyle my joy,  

use timers to schedule an uncertain life and stim like wind chimes.  

Call it contradiction; I call it choreography.

On the horizon, a grandfather clock taps time kindly.  

The hummingbird winks and sips the minute.  

I laugh, I flap, I click into place.  

Misunderstood? Maybe. 

Unbothered? Absolutely.  

I plant a flag on my brain’s own island—  

peculiar weather, perfect forecast: 100% chance of me, with confetti.