Except for writing, I have forever been a hands-on fumbler. Anyone who looks behind the pictures hanging on my walls can see that my knack for home improvement is lacking: there are more holes than a whack-a-mole gameboard.
The irony is that I come from a long line of home improvement, construction savvy ancestors who could build houses from Swiss cheese if they wanted to do so. I, on the other hand, couldn’t glue macaroni to a paper plate as a kid and still cringe when friends invite me to a Pints and Paint outing as an adult. I cling to the conceptual idea of abstract art. That’s my (creative) story and I’m sticking to it…
A couple of years ago, I thought my garbage disposal was on the fritz, so I called my handyman service who quoted me $900 for a replacement. I was on the phone with my mother at the time, and she got to hear the price followed by my foul-mouthed response. “Don’t pay them for that. I will book a flight to come there and do it for you.” As the plumbers left, the newbie tag-along plumber turned to me and said, “There’s nothing wrong with it, only needs some maintenance.” He gave me some tips, and it still works today.
I lack patience, dexterity, and strength in my hands. Golf, tennis, and anything crafty are painfully difficult for me. Swinging a hammer, paintbrush, or twisting a screwdriver are laughable visuals.
But with Aiden’s illness, money got tighter, and I scaled back on various services and luxuries to keep up with his mounting medical costs. That meant learning to do things that I often hired out. My first project, an inexpensive desk for my son’s MBNB (Madre’s Bed and Breakfast; aka mom’s house) room, was a total disaster. My darling boy had to save me from myself and the parts from the screwdriver. Embarrassing, maybe; educational, absolutely. I learned I had to slow down and think it through, putting the picture (or object) together in my head first.
Over the course of two years, I painted four rooms and a hallway. I fixed furniture, put together dog crates, and begrudgingly hung pictures throughout the house. I began to gain a new independent confidence in my abilities to assemble, repair, and maintain things on my own. I cancelled the lawn care and maid service, and I pulled back from paying for landscaping projects.
However, I hit a wall. In February of this year, I purchased a new mannequin for my resale business: a full-form, 5’6” on stilts that required assembly. Struggling to attach the left (bending) leg to the torso, I eventually gave up after four hours and put all the parts back into the box where they remained until the end of July. The box rested next to my bed for months, mocking me.
For whatever reason, maybe because I am finally coming out of my period of sadness after losing my loyal furry friend, I gave myself a pep talk as a reminder that he wouldn’t want me sulking about and ignoring the changes that I delayed in making, including the planning of my eventual relocation.
After bucking up and pulling up my big-girl panties, I decided to get moving in the right direction again. I dragged that mannequin box into the living room. My new canine friends, along with loyal Lyncoln, peered in to see what was in it. Pulling out the two menacing pieces to try again, I could hear the cosmos poking fun at me. My frustration came rushing back. Silly as it seems, tears welled up in my eyes as my face flushed red with embarrassment. “Why can I not make this happen?” There is nothing worse than personal disappointment and disapproval of oneself. Big sigh.
“Breath. Think. Make your hands mind you.” A familiar voice, that of my grandfather, rang through as clearly as someone standing next to me. One of my two favorite carpenters came through the ether to aid me in my time of need. A warm breeze embraced my shoulders, and the tension and frustration fled my body. I could sense my grandpa looking over my efforts and guiding me through the assembly.
I stopped, looked at the pieces, and took the torso, turned it upside down and placed it onto the floor. Then, with ease, using one foot to anchor the torso, I attached the wayward leg so I could return the mannequin upright to complete the effort.
Make your hands mind you. More plainly said, tell your brain to assess the effort before engaging your hands. So often, I am so anxious to dive in to start a project that I skip analyzing the need. A byproduct of ADHD; the brain struggles to control the body (and the mouth), and action (impulse) takes over and regret soon follows. (See earlier reference to my picture hanging skills).
I applied this strategy to my renewed pickleball fascination. After my first doubles game, I was so frustrated with myself that I considered sitting out the next set. However, after a rest and an internal pep talk, I literally put on my game face (brow furled, lips pursed) and came back to center and began playing well. During my break, I studied the other players, read (reread) the rules posted on the wall, and developed a repetitive rhythm in my head and instructed my body to follow the music.
Two weeks later, I was playing like I knew what I was doing. (Although, I did have to relax the game face; resting Aspy face gives off angry vibes….my bad.)
Neurodivergence can be a powerful, productive, and quite useful benefit. But in order to successfully reap its positive results, one must be willing to release the negative impressions and thought patterns and pivot to encouraging, motivating, and deliberate controlled execution.
When everything starts to work in concert together, the outcome will be well in hand.