There are three things I know for
sure about Adam Lanza thanks to the news media, as I sit and watch from my cushy perch miles away from Newtown: he had brown
hair, he lived with his mother, and he inexplicably gunned down defenseless
children. Oh yes, and he had Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD) – a
controversial, neurological puzzle of a diagnosis direly lacking in research
and medical support. I too have brown hair. I too have SPD. But there is one
major difference between me and the skeletal figure whose face haunts the news:
I would never hurt a fly.
I was diagnosed with SPD in 2010 at
the age of 27 after my new, forward-thinking therapist noticed I had some
unique sensitivities. Rediagnosed, I should say, as I had been diagnosed with
Panic Disorder, an anxiety disorder, back when I was 14. My old diagnosis never
fit quite right. Yes, I felt anxious frequently, but under very specific
circumstances – when the lights were too bright, when a noise was too loud or
too high-pitched, when I could not tune out the myriad of voices conversing
around me. I also hugged everyone in sight, and ravenously craved deep pressure
in my torso and legs, and softness on my fingertips. I slept under piles of
blankets – and never very well, I might add. I was scared and cautious about
being in new environments. An old therapist once told me I worried about the
wrong things – not for whether a neighborhood was safe and free of violence,
but whether I would feel well in my body. Teachers described me as sensitive,
and I cried (and still cry) at the drop of a hat. I was (and still am) quick to
agitate, particularly in environments where the sensory input – the lights, the
noise, the movement – feels big, bold, and out of my control. It is, as Beth
Arky says in her piece What Is Sensory
Processing Disorder? How To Diagnose Children With Sensory Issues in the
Huffington Post, a “neurological panic.” A phrase I cherish. But I have always
been very outgoing and bubbly – a friendly, passionate go-getter with a quirky
sense of humor and a love of people and writing. SPD did not make me a murderer,
it made me a little bit different, it made me strong; it made me a fighter.
I am a child of the 80s, born
during a time when SPD wasn’t a familiar acronym, and so I managed to go
untreated for a very long time. Once it was determined that I had SPD, my world
finally came into view. I understood that my anxiety is a side effect of SPD and
not the root of my problems (attempt to cope with the pain of poorly-processed
sensory information for years, and I promise you will feel anxious too). I
finally had a title, and a neurological reason, that explained in gentle,
loving detail who I was, and why I have struggled. The SPD community is filled
with adults who, like me, are coming to their senses and finally getting
occupational therapeutic help. There are nurturing parents who want to help
modify their young children’s’ lives to fit their needs, and parents learning
how to assist their adult children in succeeding. There are adolescents
learning how to transition into adulthood with a burdensome package of sensory
requirements. Sure, our sensory qualms vary widely – there are seven senses
(surprise! And a hotly debated eighth) and we can easily be over-responsive,
under-responsive, and seeking sensory input all at once. We do battle with our senses
on a daily basis, in the face of a society that has yet to understand our
cause, and this struggle unites us in such positive ways.
Struggle, sure. Frustrating, yes. Disheartening,
sometimes. But SPD is not a trigger. It is not the pulse of the horrific
actions that occurred in Newtown, much the same way the Lanza’s brown hair was
not the reason for the senseless slayings. We need to keep this in mind before
we point fingers in a Salem-style witch hunt – before we look sideways at a
young child who crashes into things more frequently than others; before we sever
ties with an old friend who couldn’t keep up with our highly-social lifestyle;
before we blame our children, neighbors, and closest confidants for being
differently wired. Adam Lanza stole beautiful lives from aching hands. I will
never dispute the horror and the tragedy of Newtown, and my heart is filled
with love for the families of the lost. Adam Lanza also stole away a diagnosis
in its infancy, yearning to be understood by society and the media. He put such
an ugly spin on something I thrive with on a daily basis, in spite of the challenge.
Those of us with SPD are the silent victims; forever entwined with the gaunt,
hollow eyes and thin-lipped mouth of a killer.
