You’ve Always Been This Way is a column written by Taylor Harris, a late-diagnosed neurodivergent woman and 1980s preschool dropout, who identifies every moment from her past that filled her with shame, and mutters, “Yep, that tracks. I see it all now.”

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You know the rap battle in 8 Mile where Eminem preempts a lyrical slaughter by Papa Doc with something like, “You’re right. I am trailer trash, Clarence. But you went to private school, and your parents are MARRIED!”

Sounds better when B-Rabbit says it. You’ll have to settle for me, a graduate of a (small, white) public school in the tree-lined streets of suburban Ohio:

“Whatchu heard about me is true. Maybe I can’t hold down a full-time job, Clarence.”

[The audience in my dark, musty brain gasps.]

“If by job, you mean a man-made morass of expectations you expect me to meet and/or exceed to receive remuneration and a possible promotion, which comes with two sides of more demands and time spent being perceived?”

Bars.

We’ll have to work on the sentence construction and syntax. Good thing I have a master’s in capital-W Writing and my copy of The Elements of Style by Strunk and White, the original rap lords. And autotune couldn’t hurt. Not to take anything away from the generous hyena whose cadaverous vocal cords gave me a second chance.

I’ll get with Doechii (“AuDHD… Keep on trying me”), but check out this bridge:

“Does that make sense? Sorry to word vomit on your shoes, but does that make sense?”

Imagine my backup dancers popping up from behind their laptops, tilting their heads to the side with a syncopated series of shrugs and awkward half-smiles.

Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Add “choreographer” to my list of possible careers. It’ll go right under “PhD in Black studies from Yale,” which appears to be more of a degree and less of a job.

Honestly, I could show you a polished, factually accurate résumé, and you’d be like: She’s not great at capitalism, but you can tell she took an AP class or two. Let’s see… She has kids but doesn’t want to open an in-home daycare? Tough spot to be in, honey.

If my song, “I Went to UVA, and All I Got Was This Late Autism,” climbs the hip-hop charts, Tyler Perry will come knocking. The biopic, set in the early ’90s to honor my roots, will open with a slick media mogul named Rob about to shred my application to edit his magazine’s “first-person” paragraph. “Wait a minute,” he stops short. “Is this the chick who left a voicemail? Shirley, play that back one more time. Forget editing. You think she’d do voiceovers for our animation department?

Shirley nods vigorously, squeezing the bag of Cheez-Its under her desk so hard it almost pops (fidgets aren’t a thing yet), knowing that if I get the voiceover job, maybe there’s hope for her. Unbeknownst to everyone but her guinea pig, Leon, she’s been checking out books from the local library and wonders if she has the ADD.

I’m letting you in on my future hit song and biopic because one of you knows Doechii or Kelis. But also, I cannot write this column on my later-in-life diagnosis without saying the hardest thing of all:

I don’t know if I can work a full-time job. At least not the sort of full-time job you might expect, given my education and the “brief bio” I send people when they insist.

Here’s the fine print: If you’re a debut author of a book that does okay (we’re talking one-millionth of one percent of Yesteryear), you write another. If you have an “in” at a major publication, you take it, even if you know it would wreck your nervous system. If you get decent teaching reviews, you ask to teach another class, and another. Right? Stack them until you’ve made something of yourself.

Not me.

I don’t have the upwardly mobile careers of my peers, sisters, or spouse. When my spouse took a job in State College, I could have tried for a full-time position. My book was coming out that winter. My therapist convinced me to accept prepping for and teaching one new course to undergrads. I loved them. I had no idea what I was doing, but I still remember one student who sat in the back and loved original-flavored Goldfish crackers, which were hard to find during the pandemic. (Seems I collect details like rocks.) The first class went fine, masks and all, but as soon as I got home, I fell onto the couch, a fire blazing along the left side of my ribs.

The students seemed to like me. Their writing improved. Yet, aside from the moments when I got to see a bit of who they were outside of class, I didn’t look back.

When we moved again for my husband’s job and I was “supposed to” go for a full-time position at another university, I couldn’t do it. Anxiety? Yes. But it wasn’t just interview or first-day nerves. I didn’t want the actual job.

The position I most recently considered was a night-shift ice-cream maker because I hoped to learn the practical steps, work alone in the back, and listen to podcasts to satisfy my need for knowledge I won’t be tested on.

All elder millennial jokes aside, I don’t think my perimenopausal body could handle the night shift, especially not with three kids who would still need me before and after school and for all the illnesses and appointments in between.

So I don’t work the night shift. And I don’t hustle to write a lot of essays and teach and sell book proposals in a way that keeps the lights on. Sometimes I teach one class; I write and read a little; and I try to figure out how to be human without disappearing.

The scariest part to say (write) aloud is that somewhere deep inside, if I could hush the world long enough, I’d hear my own small voice saying: I’m okay with this. It’s enough.

Sure, maybe I’ll write another book, try my hand at fiction, or give more talks to genetic counseling students. Maybe I’ll keep connecting with students in an asynchronous format, which gives me the time I need to process their words and respond with care, not just reflexive people-pleasing. These are my confessions, Usher, not a titillating swan song.

Even when McSweeney’s starts responding to my pitch emails with nothing but a link to Kehlani’s “Folded,” I’ll keep writing. Maybe not every day for three hours with a break to walk the dogs and then right back “on the grind,” or whatever the real writers say, but I can’t not write. Plus, who are we kidding? Where else can you find the structure-less ramblings of a creative, corny midlife autist who—

Plenty of places, you say? But I don’t mean AI-generated—

Oh, real humans write Substack newsletters? And they are helpful? Even funny? Very well. I knew I should have pursued my secondary dream of underwear modeling before everyone jumped on the high-wasted briefs bandwagon.

Let’s be real. I’m still a product of my environment. I still want to monetize something solely to perform the script of exasperation with a twinge of excitement in front of a stranger:

“You know, Chet, why don’t we transfer those funds to the Roth IRA and then we’ll circle back at the top of the fiscal, my guy?” Maybe Chet is just asking if I want to add a tip to my Cook Out milkshake, but don’t get stuck in the weeds. Fake practice makes fake perfect.

Do you know I still have a creative business idea I tucked in my heart way back in honors English? The word “business” gives me the chills in a bad, flu-like way, but who knows how else I might change as my body continues to let estrogen flee the premises, no questions asked.

Every day with my AuDHD and anxiety-filled brain is difficult and exhausting, steeped in big feelings and buoyed by stubborn curiosity, but I’m also saying that for every ten times I insult myself for the mismatch between my brain and what I should be doing with my life, there are a couple when I feel okay with the pace in my little corner of the world where Richard Scarry’s animals go to retire. In fact, I notice birds now, and I don’t know their names, but they are so small and colorful and winged and bring me delight just by being birds. One flew into my left flank on a walk the other night, and I couldn’t help but take it as a “Thank you for noticing us.” Or he might’ve been sick and disoriented, on his way to die under the minivan parked beside us.

I could end this column with a bit of a twist and list what I do as a mother. See, I am producing the next generation! But I don’t want to account for my time, my worth in that way. I know being a stay-at-home mom, part-time word wrangler, lecturer, and rabbit-hole researcher is a choice I can make because it works for our family...

McSweeney’s

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