The first time I heard the phrase "twice exceptional," I was thirty years old, sitting in a conference room at our local public school district, where I had recently been selected for the county committee on gifted education. Two weeks later, I heard it for the second time, during a class for parents of gifted children at the University of Virginia.
Learning about the concept of 2e changed my life. Before then, I had actually never realized that someone who was gifted could also have a learning disability. But as I learned more, I began to see my own life story in the case studies we were reading. I also saw my son. (I also saw my father. Both giftedness and disorders tend to run in families.)
Having grown up with the 'gifted' label myself, I thought I knew what to expect when my eldest son was chosen for the gifted program upon his arrival in kindergarten. I wasn't surprised by it at all -- he had started speaking at six months old, taught himself to read at the age of 3, and had an almost encyclopedic memory for facts -- just like his mom.
But there was a dark side to his brilliance that scared me. Something about him wasn't quite right, and it pained me because it reminded me of me. I had been a socially awkward kid, a constant target for bullies and mean girls. My son was no different in many respects. He couldn't handle his emotions well, and had trouble relating to his peers. He seemed to lack awareness of the needs and wants of others, and struggled to understand why he should have to follow rules he deemed illogical. He would spend hours obsessively lining up his toy cars on the back of the sofa, and banged his head against the floor when he was angry. If he couldn't do something perfectly on the first try, no matter how far above his developmental level, he would collapse on the floor and scream. The unexpected often overwhelmed him and sent him into a near-catatonic state, curled up into a ball with his face on the ground.
I watched enviously as my friends' children grew out of their terrible twos and threes and gradually stopped tantruming. I wondered when mine would, too. By the time he was seven, I wondered if the answer was 'never.'
My giftedness had also had a dark side. I grew up being told by the adults around me that with my intellectual gifts, I could achieve greatness. Not-so-subtly implied was the corollary: I was expected to achieve greatness. In my young mind, mediocrity (I still cringe to even type the word) became equated with failure. "For everyone to whom much is given, from him much will be required." In the eyes of the grownups, I was capable of greatness ... therefore, I was obligated to be great.
Greatness was easy when I was the only kid in a class of 30 five-year-olds who could read, do long division, and accurately tell the teacher where wind comes from and how stars are formed. As I got older, it got harder. Not because the information was more difficult for me to understand (it wasn't), but because suddenly I had multiple classes and multiple assignments and I was so disorganized it hurt.
Anxiety became my constant companion, along with a procrastination based in fear: fear of failure, fear of messing up, fear of not being the person my parents and teachers had always believed I was (I only recently learned that impostor syndrome is common among gifted children and adults alike). Being smart was all I had; the other kids didn't like the emotionally intense know-it-all who sat up front and always raised her hand, so I didn't have many friends. I wondered why it was so hard to just buckle down and get my work done when I knew all the answers. I still effortlessly aced every single test, but too many missed assignments started to take their toll on my grades. I felt like a failure. I also felt crazy and out of control, like my brain did what it felt like doing regardless of what I knew it needed to do.
I didn't know back then that I had ADHD. It wouldn't have mattered, anyway. It was the 1990s, and my parents, like so many others, didn't believe it existed.
As an adult, I succeeded at my job despite myself. I constantly missed deadlines, but people put up with it because what I produced was brilliant. I forgot appointments, my office was a company-wide joke because it was so messy, and my personal life was one mishap after another, usually caused by my extreme disorganization. (Random aside: a month ago, I met my old boss for lunch. I told him I'd been diagnosed with ADHD. He said, "I could have told you that ten years ago." I said, "Why didn't you?!" He said, "I always assumed you knew." Uh, no. Not so much.)
It was when I had a kid that everything finally came crashing down ... over and over again. I had barely been able to manage my own life. Managing a family made me feel like I was drowning every day. I had no idea how other people did it, and made it look so easy. Knowing I was supposed to be a 'genius' added insult to injury. If I was so smart, why couldn't I handle simple things like remembering when to sign up for soccer or organizing my cluttered house?
I started drinking. A lot. I drank wine every night just to cope with my own feelings of inadequacy and failure. All I saw when I looked at my life was wasted potential. Drinking let me stop hating myself for a while -- or at least numbed the pain.
It was in the UVA class for gifted parents that I learned substance abuse is incredibly common among gifted adults, especially those who are twice exceptional. I could understand why. I looked at the vats and vats of wine I was drinking just to cope with my life and realized I was self-medicating. I dawned on me that my hard-drinking father, whom I also suspected was 2e, was probably doing the same.
I knew if I didn't do something drastic, my son would follow in both our footsteps.
So I reached out for help.
With the help of an excellent psychologist who specializes in learning differences, my son was diagnosed with Aspergers the summer before his third grade year.
With the help of my own doctor, I learned that I suffer from ADHD and anxiety. I now take medication for both.
For my son, finding the right school was the key to his happiness and success, along with learning that he was allergic to artificial food coloring (more on that to come). For me, medication has been the answer to my prayers. I no longer drink too much, I meet deadlines more often than not, and most of all, I'm happier and more productive than I've ever been in my life (no, I haven't turned into a zombie or lost my creative drive, contrary to popular misconceptions about ADHD medication).
With this blog, I hope to provide a space for people facing the twin blessing/burden of a 2e diagnosis to learn more and get equipped to advocate for themselves or their loved ones. I hope you'll be part of the conversation.
