Coming out

I have a lot of attributes.

I have an unhealthy love of puns. I have a love/hate relationship with my naturally curly hair. I have the appetite of a teenage boy. I have the entirety of Wayne’s World memorized. I have ridiculously high arches in my feet. I have an impeccable memory for numbers and dates. I have mild Tourette Syndrome.

Growing up I never thought of my identity as separate from my disability. TS was just another interesting character trait. As a child, I had a somewhat misguided perception of the disorder, and I was actually pretty proud of the fact that I had TS and was nonetheless a smart cookie. I didn’t mind telling people about it. I’ve never been good at keeping my own secrets. What’s more, especially given the non-disruptive nature of my tics, I thought it was fascinating, and I thought other people would, too.

Fast forward to college. You know, the freshman seminar class that’s all about feelings and bonding and teaching you how to write? An early icebreaker was Two Truths and a Lie – simple enough premise, share three facts about yourself, one made up, and everyone else guesses what’s true. I dropped my disclosure bomb as one of my truths. I expected the reaction would be “oh how interesting.” Instead there was uncomfortable silence.

That’s when I learned to be embarrassed about my disability.

Up to this point, a few close friends and family members know about it, and they all know I don’t like to talk about it. I’ve experienced a couple torturous betrayals of this zinger of a secret. I’ve told a couple of my bosses, nearly bursting into tears when disclosing the awful, gnawing truth to a friend when she became my supervisor. I lied to a student who asked me why my legs were bouncing.

But I’m sick of the shame. I want my whole identity back.

Until next time,
Tracy