never think of myself as being neurodiverse. I should, but I don’t, and the sad fact is this is probably because society enables my neurodiversity. When my dyscalculia rages, I get to say “I’m just shit with maths” and people nod sagely, frequently agree, and that’s the end of it.
But what they don’t know is that when they asked me whatever question it was – about how to split a bill maybe, or something as simple as the timing of a casserole in the oven – and I have made a joke of it, been flippant and self-deprecating, I have been screaming inside.
Dyscalculia is commonly referred to as “number dyslexia” in reference to its more widely known linguistic cousin. It means that I struggle with counting, time, mental maths... all of it. A fog descends over my mind when faced with any level of numerical quandary. My chest tightens. I will be approximately 15 seconds away from tears. I say “approximately” because how would I know how many seconds? That’s maths.
I was unofficially diagnosed with dyscalculia when I was 15: frustratingly, a year before I was legally allowed to drop maths at school. A specialist who happens to be a family friend tested me, after becoming intrigued by the way I would treat numbers. I would cry in maths class. I would avoid homework entirely. By the time I was 16, I asked my maths teacher to leave me alone to do my own thing at the back of the class instead. I may have lacked mathematical know-how, but I ran high on sass.