Introduction
We all carry stories within us—narratives we create, often unconsciously, to make sense of our experiences. For much of my life, I didn’t realise my neurodivergence was shaping those stories. Undiagnosed until recently, my mind worked in ways I didn’t fully understand, crafting intricate connections and abstract meanings to explain what I couldn’t otherwise make sense of. These stories became my reality, shaping how I saw myself and the world.
This story is deeply personal. It’s not meant to minimise or detract from the significance of gender identity or the journeys of others. Rather, it’s an exploration of how neurodivergence shaped my understanding of myself in ways that were both complex and confusing.
My hope in sharing this is to offer connection and clarity to others. Whether it’s facing shame, untangling hidden truths, or finding the courage to ask for help, these are struggles many of us share. If my reflections here resonate with even one person, then this has been worth it.
Sharing = Caring
Secrets are locked up,
Hidden without a key.
Pieces of a puzzle,
They’re what’s inside me.
Let them out, set them free.
I wrote these lines on Sunday, 19 January 2025, within minutes of stepping out of the shower. The words came to me in a flood—just like the memories that had overwhelmed me moments before. Memories from decades ago—1999, 1990, even the 1980s. They were vivid, startlingly real, and strangely familiar, as though they had been waiting for this exact moment to resurface.
Afterward, I stood frozen in my bathroom for what felt like twenty minutes. When I finally looked up, I saw myself in the mirror—and that short poem and this story reflected back at me.
Music played softly in the background—What Would You Call Yourself by Fink. The water droplets massaging my scalp fell too quickly to count, much like the years that had slipped away between each memory. As I reached for soap, absently washing my body, the first memory struck.
In that moment, it was as if time itself stood still. The only sensation was the rhythm of water droplets, cascading around me like rain. In many ways, they became a metaphor for what followed—an unstoppable flow of realisations I could no longer ignore.
It had been days since I’d last showered—Friday or Saturday, I wasn’t sure. As I washed, my gaze drifted downward, and in an instant, I was transported back to my childhood and teenage years.
When I was younger, I often experienced excessive bleeding after going to the toilet. It wasn’t every day, but it happened often enough that I normalised it. As a child, I told my parents, but by puberty, I stopped. I thought becoming a man meant being private, self-reliant, and unwilling to share vulnerabilities. The bleeding became a secret I bore alone.
At 12 or 13, I began to wonder why it happened. My understanding of puberty was patchy at best—no one had ever really explained it. In my confusion, I decided it must be my version of a male period. That idea stuck with me. So did the bleeding, which seemed to occur monthly or bi-monthly. I reasoned it was just another part of my body I had to endure.
By 14, I stopped asking questions. Embarrassment, confusion, and fear held me back. A part of me even wondered if I wasn’t a boy at all—if maybe I was some kind of hybrid, a boy-girl with a strange medical condition that mirrored what I understood of periods.
For decades, I lived with this condition, normalising it to the point that it became part of my life. Sometimes, it would flare up badly, and I’d think about seeking medical advice. But the episodes usually lasted just a few days, and I convinced myself it wasn’t worth it. It was my secret to bear.
It wasn’t until 2014, at the age of 40, that I finally sought medical advice. I’d noticed what seemed like an infection near my rectum, and the discomfort forced me to act. Speaking to my GP felt like exposing a deep, shameful secret. When he asked how long I’d had symptoms, I lied: “Only a few months.” The truth was too humiliating.
The GP’s referral led me to a surgeon named Rupert, who diagnosed me with a fistula. I needed surgery. During the consultation, he asked how long I’d been living with the condition. Again, I lied. I couldn’t bring myself to admit I’d suffered in silence for over three decades.
The surgery repaired the condition, but the recovery was intense. I took extended leave from work, and though the physical discomfort subsided, the embarrassment lingered. I never returned for the follow-up appointment , which was scheduled a few weeks later. I convinced myself I didn’t need to. I had a young child, work commitments, and too much shame to face it all again.
Since then, the regular bleeding has stopped, and the issue is resolved—at least physically. Yet, I’ve never spoken openly about it until now. Even with my wife, close friends, or family, I’ve kept much of the detail to myself, wrapped in a blanket of shame for letting the problem go untreated for so long. Behind it all, there’s been a veil of humiliation and embarrassment—for simply not knowing.
That morning in the shower, I realised this story isn’t just about a medical condition. It’s about identity. It’s about the questions I’ve carried for most of my life: Was I born a boy? Or did someone make a mistake?
For years, I wrestled with a quiet uncertainty about who I was, my body, and what it all meant. That uncertainty was tangled with my silence—my unwillingness to share it with anyone. By locking it away, I locked away a part of myself.
Now, as I reflect, I see how the search for identity can sometimes leave us feeling lost. Often, it’s the things we keep hidden that quietly and profoundly shape who we become.
There’s so much more to this story—and others I’ve never told. There are also stories of people I care about, each on their own journey of self-discovery. These stories inspire me. They motivate me to help others uncover their own truths and embrace their identity.
Reflecting on these struggles from my past, I’ve come to see them as part of my neurodivergent identity. These days, I also view myself through a different lens: I am neurodivergent.
Whether my version of neurodivergence is ADHD, autism (AuDHD), dyslexia or something else—it matters less than the process of understanding. The journey to uncovering those truths as part of my identity remains central to my story.
That distinction matters. It’s a commitment to every version of myself: the child, the teenager, the young adult, the brother, the son, the husband, the father—who didn’t know. Who didn’t yet have the words.
This is my way of honouring them—and setting them free.
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