“But you don’t look… But you are so… You can’t be….”
Fyona and I watched the film I Swear – a biographical film about the struggles of someone with Tourette syndrome – I cried so much watching this beautiful film. Here is the description of the movie from IMDb:
John Davidson: diagnosed with Tourette’s syndrome at a young age which alienated him from his peers, he struggled with a condition few people had witnessed.
I felt seen in the times they show the main character being told to “stop messing about” or “stop acting up” – this reminded me of many scenarios in my childhood being told to stop or be more focused, like it was a switch I decided to turn off or on.
This is in no way a comparison of Tourette Syndrome and AuDHD (Autism + ADHD); they each have their own struggles, and some people can have both conditions and more.
Probably the most impactful moment from the film that hit me hard is that you have no control over the outcomes. The other sad reality is the consequences of ridicule that follow when people are unable to believe it is uncontrollable—the common responses I heard were “stop it” and “you are just doing this for attention.”
That’s why the most powerful moment in the film is when John Davidson presents the idea that people need to understand the condition, to understand how other brains can be different and that people with conditions do not want to ‘act’ differently but are results of the symptoms.
There is this scene in the movie depicting the first signs of the tics emerging, while John Davidson is in school reading a book aloud in class. Then you notice his head tilt and move around. That moment I cried, reminding me of moments when a teacher would ask me to answer a very easy question, but I couldn’t remember anything the teacher had said. The class would laugh and the teacher criticised my actions, saying I was lazy and chose not to concentrate. I wanted to concentrate and be involved in discussions. But the embarrassment turned to shame, and I internalised the criticism, making it my own voice. I figured that since these teachers and authority figures were saying it, I should also use it as a weapon upon myself.
I was trying to improve. I was lucky to have my dad help me with my speech impediment—we did daily reading exercises using Christian books for children. Although these were riddled with moral lessons and religious beliefs, this inevitably distorted my view of art: I came to believe that every creative project must teach a lesson and should never be just for fun. Unfortunately, I found out in my 30s that I also have dyslexia and dyscalculia—which is ironic given that I am writing a blog, studied structural engineering and accounting.
I do find myself, in stressful scenarios, resorting to some of the speech impediment symptoms, like slurring words, mispronouncing things, and my voice starts to strain as if I’m drowning.
Other physical struggles started when I was born with croup and was in an incubator for up to a week. That struggle to breathe continued through childhood, with severe asthma until the age of 10. I remember, vividly, having to sit at the dining table after school using the clunky nebuliser for 30 minutes, the spacer, and not forgetting the old faithful blue and brown puffers.
This is where I get curious about the ADHD “hyperactive” component. I found the term ‘inattentive ADHD’ suit how I feel, but the psychologist suggested I actually have combined inattentive (withdrawn) and hyperactive (fidget and energy to burn) – the hyperactive component didn’t quite sit right with me, until I started to process this period of my children dealing with the severe asthma.
Due to the respiratory issues, if I ran even a small distance, I could feel pins and needles around my body, then slowly my throat would hurt and I would start to feel faint. For 10 years, I was unable to play with other active children. I think I was too ashamed of the asthma—I can’t remember other children in my classes having it too, so I think other children and teachers were confused why I couldn’t just run and play.
I will also add, I am very shy and timid at school, to be honest, I still am but learning to stand up for myself when I need to, but it will be evident how my timidness actually held me back from speaking up and trying to warn people about my issues before they get worse.
One school running carnival, the principal demanded that I be part of one of the running races. I was sweating in fear. I got cheered on by other students in my group, I ran as fast as I could in the race, but then all I remember is waking up and seeing teachers’ faces looking down at me. I had blacked out and fallen to the ground. The teachers were able to get my puffer and help me recover.
This was traumatic but somehow forgotten. At a swimming carnival, some students were encouraging me to be in a swimming race that needed one extra swimmer. Because of the asthma and being too shy at the swimming lessons, I was never a good swimmer, but the admiration I received from fellow students felt incredible, and they insisted that I would automatically receive bronze (they only had two swimmers and the teachers required a minimum of three students per race). So I figured, what was the worst that could happen?
The race started and I fought for my life, flailing like a cat in water, until I had an asthma attack and blacked out again midway down the lane. People dived in and rescued me. Thankfully, I don’t remember needing resuscitation, but I came to and had to sit with my group for the rest of the day, utterly embarrassed.
These stories give more reasons why I felt isolated as a child—moments of watching other children play when I was unable to join, plus the embarrassment of having medical emergencies during activities that other children found easy.
During this time, as someone who struggled with not expelling my hyperactive energy, I would “stim”—which means:
ADHD stimming is when a person with ADHD displays self-stimulatory behavior by repeating certain sounds and movements unconsciously. There are many different examples, including lip biting, rocking back and forth, humming, teeth grinding, or chewing gum.
But why do people with ADHD stim?
A single reason can’t explain this, but experts believe it’s likely linked to how the ADHD brain works. Stimming is a response to challenges that people with ADHD have in situations that require sitting still, paying attention, or managing emotions.
Source: (https://add.org/stimming-adhd/)
I would tap, spin, move my body, and sing or hum—these were acts of trying to calm my body, as I was not able to fully expel the energy built up inside through exercise and because of the stress/anxiety being too shy to engage in social group activities in fear of being isolated or teased for being weird. However, this act of stimming was quite annoying to most people. I did not mean to cause the annoyance—it was not my choice to annoy. I felt my body had no control over how I felt.
There were times on a drive when I would be in the rear seat, tapping on the door with my hands or talking about what was on my mind—however, it would cause frustration and I would be told to stop fidgeting and speaking “nonsense.” The tapping, I totally understood that annoyance. But the way I was told that my talking was nonsense—that hurt a lot. I cannot recall the exact way I would talk, but I remember people would mention that what I said, didn’t make sense. So instead of people asking for clarification, I think it was easier to tell me that it was confusing and shut me down with replies like “ok that’s enough”—this made me feel like I was choosing to sound nonsensical.
From an early age, I had the signs of ADHD, which is fine, but when you are unable to expel the energy, then stimming is an soothing option. But when stimming was criticised, how was I supposed to stay calm? As an obedient child, I would try my best not to stim around people. I tried to mask these moments.
This led to withdrawing from social settings. Midway through primary school, I had built up enough shame and guilt that I mentally separated from other students, shaming myself.
Another reason my symptoms were amplified, my parents were ministers, setting up small churches on the weekend and some house groups during the week—this is a very difficult topic to write about, due to my father feeling very strongly about the Christian ministry. Any discussion that was not positive towards the Lord was seen as a threat, so I find it difficult to speak up for myself.
Ministry for my parents began a few years before I was born. However, my brother Ben (11 years older than me) and my sister Jodie (10 years older than me) remember my parents before they engaged in the ministry, mentioning fun stories of being adventurous with dad. But now they feel quite disconnected and judged—this would have felt like whiplash.
The first ministry in my faintest memories was in Bairnsdale, then they set up ministry in Tenterfield. All this time, Ben and Jodie had to deal with adjustments with every school they were thrown into at the time. There was no opportunity for routine.
Then eventually Taree, where my mum went back into nursing again (my mum had studied to be a nurse in Cessnock) and my dad found some work in printing (right out of school, my dad had earned a trade as a printer technician in Sydney). I was able to go to Taree Christian Community School (currently called “Taree Christian College”) from kindergarten to year 12—this was a great opportunity to build routine. However, I found the whole experience overwhelming. The same routine felt difficult for my ADHD, but the routine satisfied my Autistic side.
Ben loved having me around, even though he could be quite rough with me and caused some unsettling fears, like being pinned down and unable to move, causing claustrophobia, and other moments I prefer not to share. Jodie found it difficult to deal with me—the frustration she would feel if I had been in her room while she was at school. I think my mum was scared of telling Jodie if I had gone in her room, so she tried to keep me away from there.
There was this underlying “golden child” shame lingering in the air with my siblings, especially seeing me get medical treatments done when they were unable to, like when I went through orthodontic treatment from around the age of 11 until age 19. I had my jaw realigned using adjustable mouth plates that I would have to wear daily and while sleeping, wires that were around each tooth slowly and yet painfully spreading out my teeth, and plastic blocks that would push the jaw forward or back. Then in the final years, I had braces.
I know Jodie would be jealous seeing her younger brother getting treatment she felt she needed too. I felt terrible getting treatment like this while others wished they had it too. It did not feel fair, especially when my self-compassion was non-existent and I would have happily given my opportunity to Jodie or Ben.
I think they saw these moments with a sense of jealousy—having to suffer the ordeal of jumping from school to school, making friends and losing them, dealing with financial difficulties, and being unable to get necessary treatments—only to suddenly watch a young sibling getting what they wanted and needed. I would also find that very difficult.
I was told many times that the phrase “golden child” was a joke and being silly, but it cut me to the core. I wanted to have a friendship with my siblings. I know there will be sibling rivalry, but I also felt like Ben and Jodie had their team and I felt like the little child that couldn’t handle real situations or was always to be protected.
One of the key issues was when Ben and Jodie left home as soon as they could. I was left at home alone with my parents—that is when I felt the metaphorical religious judgement bars slide shut. I was the one in the house that my dad could focus on raising up to be “better” than my siblings.
I think I was around 8 or 9 years old at this time. My dad then narrowed in on my every move, making sure he could iron out all the mannerisms that did not seem Christian. I had no idea why I felt panic so much in my life—now I know it was anxiety. How I sat at the dining table, how I sat in chairs, the way I spoke to anyone—everything monitored, and punishment was administered where my actions did not fit the criteria… the secret criteria that was only explained to me through the use of a wooden spoon or being told to stand at the wall and don’t move.
After my siblings left, the house felt like a military camp. I do agree that there were many great memories. My parents also paid for opportunities to play sport after my asthma went away (my parents believe I got healed at a Christian healing ministry tent meeting—which I am sceptical about-and trips around Australia.
I can acknowledge that this home dynamic was mainly due to my dad’s underlying anxiety and other mental health issues resonating from his terrible childhood—I believe he did his best to take care of us all, and I forgive all of the moments that caused pain. I am not writing this to put anyone down, but to give light to moments that caused my AuDHD to flare up and also show signs of how it may be identified.
As my dad created routines and schedules to keep track of duties around the house, there were visible signs of frustration from my dad. I found the schedules and timesheets very difficult. I could understand them, but I would find doing the tasks—like washing and drying dishes, mowing the lawn, taking out trash, oh and homework—all laborious and I hated them.
I know now that this was because I used up all my masking and coping skills during the day to survive school. My dopamine levels were very low when I was home, and I needed to somehow boost my dopamine before I could do any tasks. This meant that I should have gone into my room and spent up to an hour playing or dancing (I used to love dancing alone in my room) and then come do tasks—but for some reason I had to do tasks immediately after school and then sit in quietness at the dining table at 6pm to eat dinner. The wooden spoon would be next to dad, ready to give me a smack if I misbehaved.
The moments I would be smacked would be if I fidgeted, refused to eat certain food, if I didn’t eat properly like chewing with my mouth open, playing with the food or if my elbows were on the table, or accidentally making slurping sounds. Also, there was an order to eating at the dinner table: you must firstly thank who made the food, answer questions when asked, and then stay quiet. No music was played and the TV was nowhere to be seen.
I will say that these moments did help me in the future. I still remember in the rare occasions I had stayed over at friends’ houses, their parents were surprised at my manners and would tell their children “why can’t you be more like David?” and the children scoffed.
I was petrified to ever speak up and would be the first to take the blame for any issues. I would agree that I did something wrong if my dad suspected anything—I preferred to get punished for something I didn’t do rather than having another half hour of my dad sitting down and telling me all the problems I created.
I would break down and cry—I now understand why. Firstly, I felt crushed under this never-ceasing pressure of failed expectations and contradictions—saying he loved me and then suddenly mentioning he was disappointed with me. I eventually lost my identity and focused purely on making sure I was doing the right thing.
I watched people that made my dad proud and adopted their personas. I saw how much he loved the ministry, so I learnt how to become a “fake” Christian with all the traits of Pentecostal showman skills—with that touch of an old soul.
In the times when I was alone, I self-soothed with pornography. I used to have a big interest in creativity and building unique ideas. I eventually destroyed the ideas and burnt all my drawings and threw out everything I created. The ideas and creations I made—I saw them as threats. They were causing me to feel hope, and that was terrifying, a lot of the times I shared my idea with my parents, I was actually supposed to be working on homework or tasks around the house, so my parents were annoyed.
This is the main aspect that I wanted to uncover. There’s a lot of pushback against people acknowledging they have ADHD or Autism, because the person does not show socially common characteristics like being a boy that runs around or can’t sit still. However, some of us, like myself, have ADHD, Autism, and other neurological disorders—but the problem is that not many of us have the confidence to stand up for ourselves and are forced to build up such a good mask to survive.
I need to break down the mask and show what is really happening—the real pain and anguish that was building up inside. I was trying to be the best fit for everyone, and I had removed the very identity I was to make sure others felt safe around me—but no one was helping me feel safe around them.
This mask cost a lot to my soul—the older I got, the more I felt this mask was my identity, but I could not understand why this anxiety grew inside.
Later in high school, I started to self-harm, starting with a boxing bag, punching with bare knuckles, and then slapping my own face, but not enough to leave any physical proof. I would then start to punch my own stomach. I never took my shirt off as I was embarrassed of my body.
The self-harm was not just physical but internal. My self-talk was dangerous—my inner voice started to tell me that I was a terrible person and was a burden to anyone I met. This made me very malleable, trying to mimic what other people were doing and making sure no one would ever be angry or disappointed with me, hoping one day I will feel accepted.
Having people not understand what I am talking about is so isolating. I would rehearse and build up a lot of confidence to talk about a topic and then receive blank looks, then watch someone say the same thing but so effortlessly and see that person get admiration. I would respond with the typical “yeah that’s what I was meaning” and get confused faces and “no it wasn’t, what they said is so different to what you said.”
If it was just a few times, I think I would just shrug and move on, but when it happens over and over again—that’s damaging. I am hoping it is making more sense, which I don’t really have much confidence that it is, but it is not a simple moment that causes this pain—it is when it happens so many times.
Not only is the problem that I am not being understood, but my abstract brain is on all the time. Let’s have two different examples of this as we have a sneak peek under the neurological curtain.
Let’s start with school class and the teacher is explaining a maths topic. I am looking at the teacher and they are explaining algebra. I am forcing my eyes to look at the teacher’s eyes. My brain is saying to focus on the teacher and not that odd scraping sound near the window—thanks to my hyperacusis (heightened sensitivity to sound). If the teacher sees me look away, he will point me out in class and say I am not concentrating.
I feel my body fidget as there is another sound of the classmate behind me scratching their pencil along the paper, and my brain is conjuring up imagery of what that may be. The brain is so disconnected from the lesson. The teacher sees me staring blankly—so clearly, even if I am forcing myself to stare at the teacher to show that I am focusing, the teacher just sees a student blankly staring back. Of course, the teacher is thinking “David is not listening.”
The teacher then asks me the question “how would you solve this problem?”—I am not even able to understand what the teacher said. I am staring straight at them, but my brain is switched on to what the two students in the back corner could be whispering about.
This then actually becomes worse as the students look at me, curious why I am not answering the question. Then the teacher gets more frustrated, and like I have experienced many times, I get the classic “I am disappointed David, I was expecting more from you, why don’t you know the answer?” And I am forced to find the complex neurological solution to my problems.
Now let’s apply another scenario that happens daily—the horrible question of “what will I do today?” This is a scary question. My brain is not only distracted by all the sounds or having photophobia (which is sensitivity to light)—but my brain cannot stay on a single thought pattern.
I can hear the question of what to do, and my brain goes from: well, I need to get toothpaste, but then I imagine a tree because the brushes remind me of a weird tree, then of the mountains and then butter, then me doing a kick so high it knocks my cap off, and now I am James Cameron searching for the Titan wreckage (not the logical Titanic, but the Oceangate Titan incident), and now I am thinking of wearing the wheelie bin as a fancy dress costume.
I honestly have no control over it. I had, in the past, looked at the same question and then physically hit myself to come back to the question, or just repeated quite hurtful self-talk, but nothing helps.
The other confusing factor is that my brain has multiple trains of thought. So the above chaos of unconnected chains of thought—I will also be thinking about all the senses. So while I am picturing James Cameron in a little submarine that is too small for him and he is all squished inside like a sardine looking for the wreckage of the Titan, my mind is also deciphering what sounds I am hearing. Hence the times I will be deep into a thought and then say out loud “I bet that is a fire truck” and then Fyona will say “what? There’s no…” then a fire truck will drive past.
This doesn’t happen all the time, mind you. There are times that my brain shuts down without any warning. It’s like a call centre having a power outage—my brain, like the phone operators, just sits in standby mode. Then there is a little spark, like a light flickering in the call centre, and the power is back. Without warning, my brain is back online and at full capacity.
In these “standby” moments, I usually blank out. I have had people comment that I look depressed or sad, but inside I feel like I went for a tea break. So with the amount of comments I had received, I started to force myself to act “lively.” These moments, I try to catch myself, and when I feel that “powering down” moment, I try to smile and look engaged. Or if I can, I will excuse myself and find a private area until I feel my brain come back online.
This is the reason why I will ask the same question many times, forget what is on the calendar, be unable to concentrate even when it’s a favourite topic. However, if my hyperfocus is going, I can’t get easily distracted—this is the tunnel vision ADHD side effect. The autism, in my understanding, includes the sensitivities light and sounds, but the ADHD alone just cannot keep the brain on one single train of thought.
Like with this writing, I have started with the middle section, then thought of a way to start it and then wrote some random sayings, then remembered a childhood story, and finally asked my mum for the tenth time a simple question about my asthma—I wish I could control it.
After saying all this, we jump back onto a loose timeline. Eventually, around age 16 is when I started getting suicidal ideations—the idea of escaping this prison I built for myself. Before I was 16, I would dream about running away, but not physically running away—having my soul just disappear somewhere into the imaginative realms I would create in my head. Then this concept of death emerged, I think with the destruction of my ideas and creative projects.
I was not aware of the damage this could have caused. The more I was trying to act calm and relaxed in social settings, the more I was suppressing the natural quirkiness until it became a threat to the body. It was like a virus entering the body—the immune system fights it, but the body grows weak. I wasn’t aware that I was becoming more tired and withdrawn, that this mask was consuming my energy and eroding my sense of self.
There were moments when I was working in Sydney as a structural draftsperson, studying structural engineering at Ultimo TAFE College. I did not plan my finances at all and found myself choosing to walk the 45 minutes to an hour to college from work for night classes because I didn’t really understand the public transport system becoming overwhelmed with the timetables and loads of informatiom—this also meant I missed out on the really cheap student prices for a long time.
Oh, I also need to add—throughout high school, my grades dropped. I was moved to the basic classes of English and Mathematics, and my University Admission Index number (which is known as the ATAR now) was written as “30 or less,” which meant the lowest of the lowest numbers. During my first year at Ultimo TAFE, a structural engineering teacher suggested I get my eyes tested. I did that the following week. Guess what—I have really bad eyesight. I wear my glasses all the time now, which—among many other reasons—was a reason why I struggled at school. I didn’t know everyone else was able to read what was written on the classroom whiteboard!
Around 9pm after night classes, I would be walking home, crossing over the Sydney Harbour Bridge, which was magical some nights when it wasn’t raining. On occasions, especially after the nights classmates and I would skip class and just drink at the pubs, while walking home I would look over the edge of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and consider the possibility of jumping over, but the main fear was: what if I didn’t die? I would have to consider the scenario of explaining it all to people around the hospital bed and also dealing with the embarrassment of emergency workers helping me—that was too much.
I just focused on simple self-harm, until a day I found myself in the kitchen of the church I was going to, at the end of a young adult’s event. I sat on the floor of the kitchen, out of sight of others, and with a kitchen knife pressed against my left palm, crying and applying pressure—an ex-girlfriend of mine walked in, and as she had her own experience with self-harm, she came over and knocked the knife out of my hand and tried to snap me back to reality.
I jolted up and ran. She did the right thing to stop the knife, but it wasn’t just a simple “snap out of it.” I then started walking home, which was about an hour away. The church group heard what happened and decided to let me be alone. This was the last time I trusted the church. I was sick of the “pray for the Lord to help” band-aid, and I saw a doctor to help me.
I was required to see a psychologist at the medical practice weekly for 3 months. It was free, but to encourage me to continue visiting, they created a condition that if I did not show up to the appointments, I was charged for the visits.
The psychologist was not great, continuously asking why I chose to forget appointments and forget the treatment I was supposed to do, along with telling me I needed to leave the church. The church was my only connection to family—it’s all I knew, and all my friends that decided to stick around were in the church. So I found the sessions more damaging than helpful.
This was the start of my “downfall.” My compulsive use of pornography was bad. I withdrew from the church and reached out to my parents, who didn’t seem that shocked with the news of me cutting my hand or the thoughts of suicidal ideation—but my mum did say their home was always open to me.
I was not ready to move to my parents’ home. I had so much shame with the idea that I could not do life in Sydney, but really it was the result of me trying to fit in, focused on being what I thought I should be and trying not to cause harm.
When I think of that time now, I wish I could go back with what I know and feel now and then sign up to that Sydney Film School in Redfern. Or after I got into two community theatre plays, explore the arts industry. I was so attached to not upsetting my father. When I would tell him the wonders of the film industry, creative writing, or acting—my father couldn’t see past his own fears. He was blinded by his own thoughts of me being lost—it blinded him from seeing the innocent boy and his whimsical, adventurous, curious mind.
But instead, I listened to my father and no other people around me. The friends I met, who saw the diminishing spark and encouraged me to join the creative industry—I would confuse that with the demonic powers of the devil trying to ruin my life. All the while, I was making copious amounts of videos, acting out skits, writing scripts, and drawing ideas.
After Sydney, I moved to Medowie to live with my sister Jodie and her two little boys. I tried again, becoming an architectural draftsperson designing warehouses for a prefabricated manufacturer—only to be let go as I was clearly not focused enough and I let jobs slip by with errors.
I ended up moving to my parents’ house in the Manning Valley. I was then involved again in setting up their Sunday church and helping with tasks. I felt my soul completely die at this point and tried to become a Christian minister. I started my remote theology studies—I could feel my parents being so happy to have me be involved in the church again, but my compulsive pornography use was severe and I would end the night crying with an empty loneliness. There was a sense of abandonment. I abandoned myself.
I couldn’t get a fulltime job in the Manning Valley. I signed up to Jobseeker and got rid of my fun MG F convertible for a $750 1990 Ford Laser, which I borrowed from my parents, as I still owed money on my convertible.
I was desperate for a job while I studied theology. I applied for twice the number of jobs required for Jobseeker, with only rejection letters in return.
Eventually, I did get a job as a Frame and Truss Estimator, working for a manufacturer that makes frames and trusses. I loved having a purpose again, although the job felt slow and boring. I would get all my work done quite quickly and efficiently. Until about a month later, I was let go because there wasn’t enough work to support my wage.
It is hard at this point not to take the rejection personally. Knowing I could continue receiving Austudy payments if I went to TAFE, I decided to pull out of the theology course and then went and saw the TAFE career guidance counsellor to get an idea of the courses available.
They didn’t have much on offer. Most of the courses at Taree TAFE were for traineeships or apprenticeships. They did say the best option was either Business Administration or Accounting—I felt like Accounting would give better options and signed up for Accounting Certificate IV.
This is where it clearly shows that I will just do what others tell me to do. Why didn’t I look at university or other colleges that do creative courses? But instead, I felt like I had to do what was suggested.
I did my Accounting Certificate IV in 6 months, becoming a BAS Agent—the person that prepares and lodges Business Activity Statements (BAS), manages GST, PAYG withholding, and superannuation guarantee compliance on behalf of businesses. Exciting? Not at all. I was more focused on the routine I created, being excited about this little bench where I would have my lunch every day—accounting is not my interest at all, but I did enjoy solving problems in accounting.
After finishing the accounting course, my teacher told me about Charles Sturt University and that they would be offering accounting degrees the next year at Port Macquarie (which is an hour’s drive north). I looked into it and thought, why not—this would be the ADHD side of me.
Two years later, I had completed 2 years of the 3-year bachelor’s degree in accounting. It was a fun new experience. Thankfully, I was still able to receive Austudy payment, so I got to have more time studying and immersing myself in the life of university—setting up a club called NAACHO (National Association Against College Hunger Organisation) and joining the student committee as treasurer.
But this was all because I found out that the treasurer can decide where the committee money goes, and the committee loved the idea of supporting student-led groups. No other student put a club together, so NAACHO club ended up with most of the money. Plus, on the side, I set up a student-run magazine called Synapses.
Unfortunately, a university requires students to study and earn a degree, not just setting up clubs and spending committee money, so I had to study. I struggled terribly. This is when I should have really noticded I may be dyslexic. I just couldn’t read these massive textbooks. Business law was its own horror show—there was so much jargon. I went around with a notebook with every new word and meaning. My law notebooks were just full of drawings. As we had to learn tort law, I would have a court case name and then a series of stick figures acting out the court case.
So I struggled with the theory but loved living the “student” life.
In my second year of university, I had to do work placement. I was lucky enough to shadow an accountant that worked for a small town co-operative that covered multiple stores and petrol stations. It wasn’t my best effort. The accountant and the team were the best people you could have asked for, but I just could not understand why anyone would enjoy the tasks of balancing end of months, creating reports on stock prices, and analysing data—my wife Fyona would have loved this work!
On the last day of work placement, something intriguing happened. The accountant sat me down and we talked about the placement. The accountant asked me why I didn’t seem chatty with the rest of the team and seemed like I was not enjoying the experience. I responded with the fact that the job wasn’t that interesting, so I found the last remaining days very difficult. I didn’t want to lie.
Then the accountant mentioned, “You should enjoy your job. Don’t waste the opportunities—find what you enjoy and do it.”
Sadly, it felt like the first time anyone actually explained it so simply and with such gratitude. Although I was sure they had wanted to have a student join as a part-time accounting assistant, unfortunately, I didn’t help with that aspect.
Later on, Fyona and I met online, chatting and sending each other videos over the trimester (November to February). I studied and talked with Fyona. She fell in love with my quirky videos and saw right through me. I remember her stating so clearly, “Why are you studying accounting and not becoming a videographer?”—no surprise here, but I didn’t know what a videographer was at the time.
It was becoming clearer that with these comments, I started to question how I made decisions, identifying the lack of self-confidence. Fyona taught me the most valuable lesson in my life: you have the power to make a change in your life, and you should not just blindly follow other people’s suggestions.
This moment in life changed everything. I felt like I still had life left, so I was excited to move away from my hometown and escape this weird sense of imprisonment—so we got married and moved into Fyona’s apartment in West Wollongong, NSW, not far from the University of Wollongong (UOW).
I got along with Fyona and her cat Jenga and turtle Indie—it was such a strange feeling, not having people just randomly drop in and tell me I had to abandon my studies to help them move things, give people lifts, and do other tasks.
In the last year of my degree, I had the opportunity to transfer to UOW. I pulled out of accounting and focused on business, with electives in Audio Production, Photography, and Marketing—the first time in my life I really enjoyed doing the assessments.
Then sadly, I was notified that most of my completed units of study from CSU that were accepted when I transferred universities, were suddenly rejected. If I were to stay with UOW, I would need to complete another year and a half of extra study. So sadly, I left UOW at the end of that year, got back to CSU, and finished my degree of business without needing the extra year and a half.
I do want to say, the graduation day was massive. All the students completing their degree remotely took up the whole Grand Pavilion building at Rosehill Racecourse. Instead of following the guidelines of wearing a button shirt, I thought it would be fun to wear my “Mr Monopoly Man” t-shirt with the caption “Broke” written on it. No one found it funny—this was actually an interesting test for my self-confidence. I did not get a smile from anyone, but I did not fall into complete depression and shame. I still found it fun, and that inner confidence was making myself happy.
From the exterior, I would also believe that this goofy behaviour and smiles was expressing a decision to be silly. But to be honest, my ADHD again did not realise there was a dress code, which later on I found was clearly stated on the event invitation. My parents, my grandfather, Fyona, and my father-in-law all came to witness the graduation ceremony. This made me feel so proud of the achievement.
Earning the degree was a big achievement, but because of the struggles I went through, I never saw it as an achievement but actually a lie—like someone will come take it and the structural engineering certificate away from me, saying I am a fraud. So I found myself just wanting to move forward.
Fyona helped me redesign my resume and application letters for finance and business traineeships—but then Fyona could see the real passion I had in the filming industry, and we identified jobs that needed a minimum of 3 years’ work experience.
So we started PipeWolf Media so I could get experience making videos.
We have been running PipeWolf Media for just over 10 years now—the 10 years of the business was a learning experience, exposing all the ADHD traits, hyperacusis, photophobia, social anxiety—pretty much every single ailment was exposed. I was unable to mask while running the business with Fyona. This led to me having to deal with the issues head-on, with the help from psychologists, psychiatrists and counsellors.
Eventually, being diagnosed with AuDHD helped me discover similarities with other people with the same diagnosis. In the years of seeing the psychologists, I ever so slowly started to not fear my ailments but see my quirks and share them with other neurodivergent people.
I cannot explain how important it is to live honestly around the right supporting people. After understanding how my “weird” unwelcoming chats, lack of focus, fidgeting, and body language were just my quirks, I decided to let them unmask more—although it is an emotional experience, I felt like my wings were not held back anymore.
This also leads to being confident to work on my acceptance—that I am worthy of creating projects—and I have done so with small steps.
If you feel lost and unsupported, I highly recommend reaching out to a good psychologist and spending time with people that are on the same wavelength as you. We all must work to survive, but we shouldn’t have to do it alone.
Thanks for reading, and take care, my friend.
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