![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I've never been a squeaky wheel. An observer by nature, a "monkey see, monkey do" type, I'd mimic someone doing what I wanted to achieve until I taught myself. Asking for help was embarrassing, more embarrassing than making my mistakes unobserved by myself in the corner. When I more or less had a handle on things, I'd sometimes ask a teacher, or a more accomplished student, to check and see if I was doing it right. Most times I needed minor adjustments, fine tuning, or I was half a bubble off, but that was less embarrassing than being completely inept.
Part of it is ADHD. Mom told me, "Ask questions, that's why the teachers are there. And if you don't understand the first time, ask again. Keep asking till you understand it." But you know, the third time you ask, it's just damned embarrassing. And when somebody flips a switch and the book is written in Urdu, or the teacher, or everyone involved in the discussion, is speaking some obscure Aleut dialect, it's less embarrassing to just watch and pick up what you can by mimicry.
So I've always been an observer. And most of the time, I sought to avoid attention. I look back at the child I was, and my heart aches a little, because that child would have loved to have had her successes exclaimed over. I was good at some things, but they were so random, to my child's understanding of things. I never knew when I was going to do something instinctively and have it be ludicrously easy, or to watch and mimic, and with minor adjustment achieve success, or try repeatedly and finally give up and pretend I'd never wanted to do that anyway. Best nobody even noticed I was there, in case I failed utterly, miserably, publicly.
So today, I go about doing what I can, attempting new things I haven't been successful at in the past, because sometime after I reached adulthood, that switch got flipped back and somehow I learned how to learn. A lifetime of coping taught me oblique methods of approach, end runs, bypasses, and intuitive leaps. I'm not stupid, I'm differently abled, and sometimes that's a good thing. When traditional approaches have repeatedly not worked sometimes the oblique one does, in a given situation. And I have gotten points for originality and ingenuity. But still, odd. Quiet, withdrawn.
I have come to realize I resent the squeaky wheel, the attention hog, the flashy peacock who turns all heads and gets hairpats and flowers strewn in her path. We are good friends, and we complement each other, and most of the time I hang back and smile benevolently from the fringes as she accepts attention as her due. She is high maintenance by nature. What puzzles me is that she's proud of it, demands it if it isn't offered as a matter of course, where I'm embarrassed by it, even while I think I'd like a little of that light turned on some of my successes.
Being human is damned hard. I haven't quite mastered it yet.
Part of it is ADHD. Mom told me, "Ask questions, that's why the teachers are there. And if you don't understand the first time, ask again. Keep asking till you understand it." But you know, the third time you ask, it's just damned embarrassing. And when somebody flips a switch and the book is written in Urdu, or the teacher, or everyone involved in the discussion, is speaking some obscure Aleut dialect, it's less embarrassing to just watch and pick up what you can by mimicry.
So I've always been an observer. And most of the time, I sought to avoid attention. I look back at the child I was, and my heart aches a little, because that child would have loved to have had her successes exclaimed over. I was good at some things, but they were so random, to my child's understanding of things. I never knew when I was going to do something instinctively and have it be ludicrously easy, or to watch and mimic, and with minor adjustment achieve success, or try repeatedly and finally give up and pretend I'd never wanted to do that anyway. Best nobody even noticed I was there, in case I failed utterly, miserably, publicly.
So today, I go about doing what I can, attempting new things I haven't been successful at in the past, because sometime after I reached adulthood, that switch got flipped back and somehow I learned how to learn. A lifetime of coping taught me oblique methods of approach, end runs, bypasses, and intuitive leaps. I'm not stupid, I'm differently abled, and sometimes that's a good thing. When traditional approaches have repeatedly not worked sometimes the oblique one does, in a given situation. And I have gotten points for originality and ingenuity. But still, odd. Quiet, withdrawn.
I have come to realize I resent the squeaky wheel, the attention hog, the flashy peacock who turns all heads and gets hairpats and flowers strewn in her path. We are good friends, and we complement each other, and most of the time I hang back and smile benevolently from the fringes as she accepts attention as her due. She is high maintenance by nature. What puzzles me is that she's proud of it, demands it if it isn't offered as a matter of course, where I'm embarrassed by it, even while I think I'd like a little of that light turned on some of my successes.
Being human is damned hard. I haven't quite mastered it yet.
