Threads of Disorder: Navigating Life as a Neurodivergent Sock Knitter

In my world, chaos has always been woven into the fabric of everyday challenges. Growing up undiagnosed brought with it a constant barrage of messages, often implied, that I was doing things wrong or falling short of expectations. "If it's worth doing, do it right," they would say, a sentiment that resonated but remained elusive, especially for an autistic child like me. The "right" way for everyday tasks was a puzzle I struggled to solve, and my self-worth hung in the balance. Creativity, an indispensable companion to the neurodivergent mind, serves as an escape from the pressures of a world not inherently designed for us. The contrast between my unruly creative spaces and the tranquil rhythm of knitting has become a respite from my overwhelm this last year.

As a child, undiagnosed and yearning for understanding, cleaning my room was a dreaded mental explosion, a firecracker lighting up my autistic brain; solutions in all directions. Prioritizing was an impossibility, a physically painful endeavour. How does an undiagnosed autistic child confront a messy bedroom without the aid of accommodations? Baskets or open shelves were not found in 60’s children's rooms! There was one double-wide dresser which I anthropomorphized. It loomed, it mocked, it fought back. With its giant drawers I could barely manage once I had crammed in all the stuff from the floor in utter surrender.

The guidance that echos through my life: "Do one room at a time and then close the door." A seemingly sensible strategy, yet the chaos from that room had a life of its own, spreading like wildfire. What do I do with stuff that belongs in there once the door is metaphorically closed? Is it starting again if I open it, then when am I finished? The one-room-at-a-time method, less confusing to allistics, brought more decisions that distracted and drained me, turning the sanctuary of closed doors into an impossibility.

The kitchen, in particular, poses a challenge beyond overwhelming. While others breeze through emptying the dishwasher, my brain clamours to reorganize the spice drawer or scrub grout for hours, leaving the dishwasher untouched and the sink brimming with dishes. Hours of effort yield little functional change, having spent hours immersed in the overwhelming minutiae of invisible tasks.

My bedroom is my knitting space, a haven where storage containers overflow with yarn,

stitch markers, and half-finished projects. "Second-sock syndrome"* is a shared guilt among us, and I proudly hold a second sock for 50% of my projects, a testament to my knitting journey. Knitting socks has become a refuge, a sanctuary from constant decision fatigue. Starting a new sock is a low-stakes decision-making process, a sensory delight as I delve into my yarn stash – the colours and textures captivating, the dopamine rush of novelty exhilarating. Mistakes are fundamentally fixable. In the repetitive, mechanical stimming of knitting, my brain finds solace for hours or days, and I am hyper-focused again, for a time.

The effort remains invisible to everyone else, residing solely in my head. Decisions like searching for pine needles under baseboards or organizing books by size and subject are nuanced intricacies that persist. The realization of how chaos has been a companion for years is a weighty burden to bear. Acceptance that being neurodivergent is neurological, not behavioural, is liberating, yet the echoes of negative self-talk and frustration linger. Breaking free from rules I never grasped is a journey, but I know now, that I've been okay just the way I am – messy house and all.

I’m just a girl trying to knit socks amidst the chaos.

*Second-Sock Syndrome: That moment when the thrill of finishing the first sock is followed by the daunting realization that there's another sock waiting to be knitted – a task that suddenly feels as epic as conquering Mount Everest armed only with a pair of knitting needles.