Neurodivergent

People have spent a lot of my life assuming words are easy for me.

I was the kid who read early, read constantly, and used words in ways adults noticed. I was trying to talk before I was six months old. My first word was really a first sentence: “Hi there mama.” I read everything I could get my hands on, including a medical dictionary when I was six.

From the outside, that looked like language strength. Maybe it was. I also suspect I may have been hyperlexic as a small child, though I can’t prove that now. What I can say is that early reading made adults notice my language before they noticed my friction with language. Reading words, recognizing patterns, and collecting vocabulary are not the same as being able to explain yourself easily, answer quickly, or turn internal experience into speech on demand.

Sourcing Note: The examples in this article are not hypotheticals. They come from my own captured daily logs, technical sessions, and lived experiences. For a plain-language breakdown of the physical mechanics behind my diagnoses, see my Human Terms summary.

The Comfortable Lie of the Sum #

There’s a model of disability that feels mathematically tidy and is almost entirely wrong.

It goes like this: a person has Disability A and Disability B. Their overall difficulty is therefore $A + B$. If we build an accommodation for A, we’ve reduced the total load to just $B$. Progress has been made. The spreadsheet balances. Everyone goes home feeling useful.

The Broken Autopilot: Defining the Terrain #

Have you ever thought about how much of your life gets handled by background processes? For most people, basic functions like swallowing and breathing are automatic, handled by the system’s kernel without any conscious input. For me, these are manual system calls. I call this “Manual Mode.” I don’t have a background thread for swallowing. Every single swallow is a conscious execution; if I lose focus, I find myself choking or realizing I’ve stopped clearing my throat entirely. My breathing follows a similar logic. While my body technically keeps me alive, it doesn’t do it efficiently. If I’m deep in a coding problem, I forget the instruction to breathe deeply. My system starts running on shallow air, my intracranial pressure spikes, and I end up with a system crash in the form of a debilitating headache. Every breath is a manual command, and the CPU cycles required to keep my physical hardware running are cycles I can’t use for anything else.

Content Note: This narrative discusses medical trauma and institutional harm.

Preface #

This is a personal narrative about my experience as a blind, multiply disabled student in a residential school setting. It reflects my lived experience and my understanding as an adult, informed by later medical and psychological evaluations.

This account isn’t intended as an attack on individual staff members. It’s an account of systemic failure, medical misattribution, and institutional decision-making, and of the long-term impact those failures have had on my health, functioning, and sense of safety.

Introduction: Why Self-Paced Education Matters #

As someone with multiple disabilities, including total blindness, neurodivergence, and chronic health conditions, I’ve found that traditional education often fails to accommodate my learning needs. I’ve attempted college online four times and community college once in person. Each attempt came with major barriers that made it hard to succeed.

Barriers included rigid schedules, campuses that required physical navigation and mental mapping, fixed expectations around learning styles, a lack of understanding from educators on how to support diverse needs, and financial aid that was only available if I attended at least half-time. Those obstacles made it clear I needed a different approach to learning, one that actually fit my abilities and circumstances. That’s what pushed me toward self-paced education.

Gaming has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. From puzzles as a child to text-based adventures in school, games have always been a place of joy, challenge, and escape.

As a blind, neurodivergent, and chronically ill woman, finding games I can actually play and enjoy has become increasingly difficult. This post is for other disabled gamers, accessibility advocates, and developers who want to understand what accessibility looks like in practice, not just in theory.