I think in complex epiphanies. I never have a single thought, except “I am insufferably bored!” Thoughts stay with me, whispering, connecting, birthing ideas faster than I can speak or write.
Life is a procession of instantaneous and profound moments. Some would consider my experience spiritual. I know it is neurological.
I have little to show for my excessive mental energy. Too many ideas crowd me. Sprawling narratives stream from my fingers. The ideas dart about so wildly they hold meaning only to me. Weeks pass before I whittle a simple blog post to lucidity. The world outside my skull is so slow it crawls.
Excruciating boredom opposes intellectual excitement. The sensation is physical. Hold your breath until it hurts. The burning for air in your lungs is how boredom feels deep in my muscles and joints. Intellectual nothingness is drowning. Movement is a gasp of air, but until my mind can latch on to the right thought, I flail.
I exist either dazzled by thoughts or restless with fidgety, aching boredom.
I am intellectually dysregulated.
As a child, my mother smoothed my way. She fed my brain continuously or pressed me into captivating activities. She scheduled my time.
The hardest part of my life was young adulthood. I chose the wrong career path. I mistook intellectual ability for intellectual motivation. Electromagnetics and calculus were easy, but boring. Despite natural talent, I failed. I did not possess the maturity, the wisdom to find a good path for myself.
Only in the past few years did I become self-aware. Raising an autistic child placed a platter of insight before me. He is me revised. Perhaps most parents take this journey; a complete digestion of their own lives, absorbed and reflected upon to nourish the next generation.
My son must learn that uncommon intellect comes with a caveat—the rest of his abilities will lag. One day he will celebrate not the marvel of his genius, but the other skills he mastered to balance it.
