Writing with the Wrong Hand
- Neurospicy Poems
- May 3
- 3 min read
Updated: Sep 3
A neurodivergent journey through a neurotypical world
By Neurospicy Poems
It’s like being told
to write with your right hand
when your body knows left.
You can learn—
you do learn.
But it never feels natural.
It never stops hurting.
And no one sees the pain.
They just see neat lines.
A finished master’s degree.
A decent job.
A home.
Family and friends.
They don’t see the effort it took
to look “fine.”
I ticked the boxes.
I passed the tests.
But behind the scenes,
I was unraveling.
Since puberty,
something always felt off.
I cycled through counsellors,
CBT worksheets,
prescriptions—
trying to fix
what I thought
was a broken version of normal.
You looked at me
and said:
“She’s just shy.”
“She’s anxious.”
“Too pessimistic.”
“She’s antisocial.”
“Weird.”
“Self-centred.”
“Stuck up.”
You told me:
“Make more of an effort.”
“Put yourself out there.”
“Be more interested in people.”
“Ask more questions.”
“Don’t make the conversation all about you.”
“Speak up at the time.”
“Don’t hold a grudge.”
“Be more positive!”
But I was trying.
Every year or so,
I’d crash—
burnout again,
wondering why.
Because I was living in translation.
Turning down my volume.
Second-guessing every sentence.
Masking instincts
just to be palatable.
You never saw
the mental maths behind every interaction.
The hours of emotional admin.
The way I’d replay a conversation
for days,
wondering what I missed.
Turns out—
people like me
don’t need small talk.
We show we care
by sharing facts,
interrupt with excitement,
bond over special interests.
We tell stories
to connect,
ask for context
to understand,
analyse feelings
to process them.
We explore the why
so we can move on.
We notice injustice—
and can’t look away.
We feel safe
in silence.
We say what we mean,
and mean what we say.
You called me passive-aggressive.
I was processing.
You called me pessimistic.
I was overwhelmed.
You said I should “just say how I feel”—
but I can’t always find the words
until the moment is long gone.
I have alexithymia—
not a case against you.
Now I know—
and I’ve stopped apologising
for writing in my own language.
I have AuDHD.
Are you willing to learn?
——
Author’s Note:
This poem speaks to the lifelong exhaustion of navigating a world not built for you, and doing it so well that no one sees you’re hurting. It’s about late-identified neurodivergence, the emotional toll of trying to be “normal,” and the quiet unravelling behind all the achievements.
“Writing With the Wrong Hand” uses metaphor to capture what it feels like to perform neurotypically without ever feeling at ease. You learn the rules. You passed the tests. You build the life you were told would make you happy, but it never quite fits. And worse, the pain is invisible. People see success and assume wellness. They never see the cost.
This piece honours the invisible labour of masking—the constant internal strain of contorting yourself to meet unspoken expectations. It gives voice to the confusion of growing up without language for your difference, and the years spent searching for what you thought was “wrong” with you. Therapy after therapy, label after label, without anyone ever thinking: maybe your brain works differently.
It’s also a poem about grief—the kind that surfaces after diagnosis or self-recognition. The grief for time lost, for parts of yourself suppressed, for all the ways you tried to fix something that was never broken.
I wrote this poem as a reflection on my journey into late-discovered autism and ADHD. It’s a love letter to everyone who has done the hard work of blending in while slowly falling apart on the inside. And it’s a reminder that just because you learned to write with the “wrong hand” doesn’t mean you were ever meant to.
You deserve to be seen. Fully. Without contortion. Without apology.
——
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© Neurospicy Poems 2025
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Part of the Neurodivergent Inner Voice Framework™ & taught via the Neurodivergent Voice Method™
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