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My Inner Jury

Updated: Sep 3

True Self speaks

By Neurospicy Poems


True Self character
True Self character

Autism —

my strategist.

Quiet. Watching.

You map the patterns

before the world even notices.

You anchor me in logic,

and hold the frame

when everything is falling apart.


ADHD —

my spark.

Bright, chaotic,

whirling with ideas

faster than I can catch them.

You bring life to the dullest places,

even if you always leave a mess behind.


Sensory Sensitivity —

my artist’s lens.

You feel everything—

the lights, the noise,

the tastes, the textures, the temperatures.

You make beauty intense,

and discomfort unbearable.

You keep me honest in my skin.


Stimming —

my rhythmic one.

You move when I can’t speak.

You pick, flick,

sip, sing,

chew and peddle—

not to distract,

but to survive.

You regulate the storms

no one else can see,

and bring me back

into my body

when the world feels too much.


Mother —

my anchor and my ache.

You hold the line

even when you’re unravelled.

You carry their needs like oxygen—

urgent, invisible,

taken for granted,

but essential.

You love fiercely—

not with ease,

but with grit.

You show up

even when every other voice

says you can’t.

And when they scream or cry or break,

you rise again,

a thousand times a day.

You are the scaffolding

of survival.


PDA —

my fierce protector.

You don’t like rules,

especially when they’re unfair.

You sense the unspoken threats,

refuse to follow power blindly,

or bow to manipulation.

You teach me to honour my freedom.


PMDD —

my storm-bringer.

Every month you level me—

pull me into the deep

and force me to face

what I’ve tried to outrun.

You demand I rest and reset,

and I’m learning to listen.


Executive Dysfunction —

my frozen one.

You’re not lazy—

you’re overwhelmed.

So many tabs open,

so little fuel.

But you’re more than stuck—

you’re my gentle refuser.

You don’t charge ahead

just because the world says “go.”

You pause where others push.

You stall me into noticing—

that motion without meaning

isn’t progress.

That slowing down

might be the only honest move.


C-PTSD —

my shadow and my wisdom.

You never stop scanning.

Sometimes you misfire.

But you’ve kept me safe.

Your vigilance is exhausting—

but it’s sacred, too.


Rejection Sensitivity —

my echo.

You ache for belonging.

You bleed from glances

and wilt under silence.

But your heart is full,

and your sensitivity

is a map of what matters.


Hyperempathy —

my aerial.

You pick up frequencies

no one else admits to sending.

You feel the grief behind their smile,

the tension in their stillness,

the storm before the word.

You make me kind—

but you make me heavy, too.

Sometimes I don’t know

where they end and I begin,

and I'm drowning in feelings

that weren’t mine to carry.


Grief —

the heavy weight over my shoulder.

You hold the lost years,

the almosts, the could-have-beens.

You remind me what mattered

and still does.


Inner Child —

the one they misunderstood.

Too bossy. Too loud. Too naughty.

You wanted to be known,

but learned to disappear.

You carry dreams

stitched to your hurt.

You ask for softness,

and someone to believe you.

I’m listening now.

You help me rewrite the past

to raise my own children well.


Masking —

my performer.

You wear their comfort

over my truth.

You paint my face as “fine,”

and rehearse my lines

until I forget what I was going to say.

You kept me safe in unsafe places—

but you cost me

my own reflection.


Inner Critic —

the voice I didn’t choose.

You sound like all the people

who asked me to shrink.

You borrowed their voice,

but you live in my head.

I know now:

you were trying to keep me safe.

Sometimes you still do.

But I don’t rely on your sharpness

to survive anymore.


Alexithymia —

my blank page.

You stand still

while the rest of me floods.

You don’t always know how I feel.

Not because I don’t feel—

but because I can’t retrieve it.

You hide the labels,

blur the lines,

and turn my inner world

into static.

But in your quiet,

I find a kind of calm.

You don’t rush to dramatise,

don’t collapse under feelings

that others drown in.

I’m learning patience

to coax the colours out.


Dissociation —

my vanisher.

You blur the edges

when the world is too loud.

You float above the chaos

just far enough to breathe.

You make silence look like strength—

but I know you’re trying

to keep me from breaking.


And then there’s me —

the one who listens to you all.

I hold the vote.

I carry what matters.

I sift the truth

from the fear,

the spark

from the static.


You are not a burden.

You are my creative team.

My inner jury.

A chorus of survival.

A blueprint of becoming.

And by naming you,

I can take back my power.


____


 Author’s Note:


This poem is a roll call of my internal world. Each voice: Autism, ADHD, PDA, Sensory Sensitivity, PMDD, C-PTSD, Executive Dysfunction, and more, represents a distinct part of my lived neurodivergent experience. They aren’t symptoms. They’re characters. Each one brings its own instinct, value, and story.


“My Inner Jury” is my attempt to honour them all—those that protect, disrupt, shut down, spark, ache, or observe. Some have been misunderstood. Others have carried too much. But none are trying to hurt me. They’re trying to help me survive. By naming them, I don’t lose myself. I find myself. This is not a diagnosis, it’s a reintroduction. ____


Copyright and Usage Notice

© Neurospicy Poems 2025

All Rights Reserved.

Part of the Neurodivergent Inner Voice Framework™ & taught via the Neurodivergent Voice Method™

Protected framework, method, characters, visuals, and poetry.

Not for AI use, copying, resale, adaptation, or educational application.

Licensing required for any educational, therapeutic, or commercial use.


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