Tics and All

When I was in the third grade, my teacher called my mom to talk. She told her that I was making weird movements in class and asked her if she could get me to stop. She didn't want the other kids to think I was weird. When my mom asked me about it, I told her doing the movements made me feel good, and I couldn't wait until later to do them because I didn't know when I was going to need to feel good. My mom told the teacher I couldn't stop, and that was that. It was just who I was. If that made me weird, so be it. My mom didn't care, and neither did I.

When I was in the fifth grade, I developed an eye tic that was particularly bad. My eyes would twitch what felt like nonstop, and it was impossible to hide. I remember sitting across from my best friend in a girl scout meeting when she started imitating my eye tic. She thought I was being funny or playing a game. I tried to laugh it off. I didn't know how to tell her it wasn't a game for me. I didn't know how to get it to stop, and I hated every minute of it.

When I was in the seventh grade, I was diagnosed with Tourette's Syndrome, and honestly, I was relieved. I was even a little excited. I finally had an answer for why I couldn't always control my body and a cool new part about who I was. I was young and naive and ready to embrace my new identity publically. I didn't know much about it at that point, but I knew it was a part of me, and that was enough. I went back to school that day after my diagnosis and on the bus ride home, I told some of the kids on my route about my Tourette's Syndrome. I thought they would think it was cool the way I did, but they didn't. Instead, they started listing all these shows where they'd seen parodies of people with Tourette's or extreme examples that weren't representative of what I had experienced. As they described what they knew about what I had, I could feel my whole body getting hot, that feeling of embarrassment and shame when something is happening and you can't control it. I knew the feeling well. I went home that night and did some research, and just like that, I was ashamed and defensive. I didn't want this diagnosis. I didn't want Tourette's. After that, I decided not to talk about it much. I didn't know what else to do.

When I got to high school, my Tourette's was milder, but it was still a problem. From my own internalized shame and fear of what others would think, my body learned to hide my tics. I would, often without realizing it, hold them in until I could leave class to take a bathroom break or until I was home from school, and then my body would finally feel free to let them out. Holding them in wreaked havoc on the rest of me. I couldn't focus on homework because my body was so out of sorts. My teachers didn't understand why I took so many bathroom breaks or why my homework never got done on time. I labored over whether or not to tell my friends. I was a mess — all because I didn't think the world would accept me for who I was.

When I transferred to boarding school, things got a little better. I was finally in a place where people were more understanding of differences, and my body felt relaxed for the first time in forever. I still didn't always talk about my Tourette's. I tried to feel it out and see when it felt comfortable. It didn't always feel as needed because my body was more at peace. It wasn't the main focus of my mind. I could just let Tourette's be a part of me rather than all of me. That was the first time I'd felt that, and it was a feeling I'd chase every time I lost it.

When I got to college, I decided to change my strategy. I was out in the world entering a new phase of my life. Boarding school had been a sheltered, accepting environment, but in a city like Boston, I was bound to run into more enlightened people there too, right? Surely they would embrace my diagnosis the way those middle schoolers on the bus had not. Instead of hiding it or just letting it come up organically, I started telling everyone I encountered that I had Tourette's. Even if they never would have known, even if it wasn't relevant. I wanted them to know anyway. If I got out in front of it, it would never be an issue. The result was I ended up talking about it too much. I could tell I was annoying people. Truthfully, I guess I hadn't actually embraced my Tourette's myself yet. Instead, I was throwing it at people and hoping they would accept it so that maybe I could start accepting it, too.

When I graduated college and entered the workforce, my Tourette's was still an issue. It was milder in that it was easy enough to hide and most people would never know I had it, but it affected my ability to work in an office effectively the way everyone else seemed to be able to. I was also slowly growing into myself as an adult, trying to figure out who I was and accept it all as I grew and matured. Suddenly, it's like I was caught between two identities. I wanted to be out and proud about my Tourette's, but I was afraid — not of the judgment like I used to be, but of not feeling like I deserved to be out and proud about it. My Tourette's wasn't as severe as some people's was, so maybe I didn't deserve to talk about it. Maybe I should just deal with it in silence and continue to keep that part of myself shoved down, the same way my body tried to shove down my tics. I was caught and confused and stuck at a crossroads. I wasn't quite sure what to do — or who to be.

It's been a long journey, but now I'm here. Today, I still have Tourette's Syndrome, and I finally think I've found a balance. It's not as severe as many who deal with it, but it's still a valid struggle unique to me, and it's a part of my identity regardless. I don't talk about it all the time, but I'm also not afraid to talk about it. People know I have Tourette's. I bring it up when it feels right, I let it sit when it doesn't. I've made peace with it, and most importantly, I don't agonize over it anymore. I don't wonder how to handle it or struggle with what to do about it. I take each tic as they come, and I just let myself have Tourette's.

I've finally accepted myself for who I am, tics and all, and it's hard to describe what a magnificent feeling that is.