The Lord's Annointed and Undiagnosed. A Southern ADHD Autistic Memoir
I grew up thinking I was chosen by God. Turns out I was just neurodivergent ADHD with a side of religious trauma.
We were the good people. God's chosen. We didn’t need therapy — we had prayer. We didn’t need doctors — we had nurse WonderMom and family potions. And if your feelings got hurt? Well, maybe your faith wasn’t strong enough. God said “Be happy.” That was the only mask we were allowed to wear. But somewhere between the casseroles, the sermons, and the chronic overstimulation in a workload only the poorest understand, I started to realize: I wasn’t just “the weird one.” I was definitely ADHD and I might be autistic. And I’m not alone.
In the swirl of Alabama inbred DNA surrounding me, comments like these were frequent about our “different” relatives:
“He’s a few fries short of a Happy Meal”
“He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed”
“His porch light’s on, but nobody’s home”
“She’s about as useful as a screen door on a submarine”
“Her elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top”
“He’s got a hitch in his giddyup”
Just like we didn’t have cell phones in our hands, we also didn’t have the words and diagnosis’ we have today. I remember my parents making fun of having to “label” everything. Bet their heads are spinning now if they look at ChatGPT since now the computers can even create the labels! :)
Blessed, Oppressed, and Probably Autistic
You don’t question the gospel when you're a kid. You just absorb it — every rule, every unspoken shame, every "bless her heart" laced with insult to conform in the fearshameguilt clad control they want you in.
We were God’s chosen. We didn’t cuss. We didn’t drink. We didn’t get mental health care. We had rot in our teeth from a steady diet of Little Debbie snack cakes and prayed our way through migraines, meltdowns, and madness.
But now I look back and see the signs everywhere:
Sensory hell from loud churches and pulpit pounding sermons
Forced eye contact under threat of being called “disrespectful”
An obsession with fairness, truth, and justice that never went away
Literal thinking that made sarcasm feel like emotional terrorism
And I was told, over and over:
“You’re just too sensitive.”
“Stop acting weird.”“Quit moving and sit still.”
“You don’t have common sense.”
“You think too much.”
“You’re paying for your raising with that one” (referring to my rambunctious baby brother.)
“You’re not right in the head.”
“Quit crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.”
“Act like a lady.”
“Smile.”“At least you’re not in a concentration camp.”
These weren’t just throwaway lines. These were bricks in the wall I had to tear down to become the whitest black sheep in my family.
Neurospicy for Jesus
Looking back, I was "truth autistic." It wasn’t about social games — it was about the unbearable tension of falsehood. I was so successfully brainwashed into a childlike Pollyanna state of being with untreated everything for so long, personal relationships were doomed to failure. I didn’t understand myself much less how to be a life partner.
And yet… I married a con man. I spent decades in relationships where truth was masked. I was furious when I found out he had been lying to me for years and we were almost bankrupt. But why? I had lived the majority of my life in a disassociated survival mode trauma response myself.
Yet I did what my parents refused to do. I got help. I allocated major resources to my own well being. I faced my internal demons head on and studied myself, my brain, my health, my emotions, my mind. And that’s where I found peace.
I didn’t know how to value myself before this journey. I was trained to perform worthiness. Not to feel it.
In cultland there is no therapy. No medical support. No diagnosis. Just “faith, hope and love.” Just “Prayers please.”
Faith that God would heal me.
Hope that things would get better.
Conditional love that made me ignore my gut instincts in favor of submission and survival for that shred of acceptance I so desperately tried to get.
Spoiler: it didn’t get better. Until I got educated. Until I found words that explained the wild, wired way my brain works.
The Power of Knowing What to Call It
It took me decades to figure out what was going on. And when I did, it wasn’t through a formal diagnosis. It was through patterns:
All my friends? Autistic or high trauma.
My employees? Neurodivergent or healing.
My comfort zone? Quiet, truth-filled, radically safe spaces.
My biggest triggers? Loudness, dishonesty, crowds, being alone.
Turns out, I wasn’t broken — just badly matched with the environment I was raised in and heartbroken from years of loss and pain beyond what most could endure.
And when I learned the language — sensory processing, masking, emotional dysregulation, executive dysfunction — I finally had power.
Not power over others.
Power over shame. Power to utilize the resources and tools I found in educating myself to change myself and my entire family’s future in breaking generational trauma.
From Survival to Witness
I didn’t want to share my story. I’m an introvert. A nerd. A reader. A thinker. I didn’t want to expose my life. It’s messy. It’s raw. It’s real.
But I also know there are so many young women like me — stuck in small towns, high-control homes, trapped in cycles of abuse or silence. Girls with brains wired for truth, drowning in lies. Girls who think they're the problem — when it's the system that failed them.
If that was you — or is you — I want you to know: you’re not crazy. You’re not broken. You’re not alone.
How Do We Reconnect a Divided World?
Through stories.
Through grace.
Through compassion.
Through education — not just academic, but emotional.
Through people who are willing to say, “Here’s where I came from. Here’s how I grew. Here’s what hurt. And here’s what healed.”
We don’t need more judgment.
We need more people brave enough to say:
“I’m not who I was raised to be. I’m becoming who I really am.”
This is the first of many articles I’ll be writing about the strange, high-contrast, black-and-white world I finally found a place in. Follow along as I unpack the stories I never thought I’d share. We don’t need perfection. We need witnesses.
I’m one of them.
You can check out my books at www.crystalballadventures.com.
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Wow, this gave me chills bumps. I can relate to a lot of this, love the share!!