What it means to be weird

In his latest book, Normally Weird and Weirdly Normal, Robin Ince says that he always asks people to put the vital information of an email in the first sentence. So, for those that share his cognitive style, let me cut to the chase and say that I absolutely loved this book. I started reading the hardback when it came through the post and was so keen not to stop, that when I set off for the office I looked up the audiobook and kept going. For the next few days, I flipped between both formats wanting to consume it as quickly as possible. I'm not the only one – a friend of mine, recently diagnosed with ADHD, read the book in less than 24 hours, and I have seen many others say the same. 

Robin's book gives a frank and compelling account of his journey to understanding himself and in particular his discovery that he is neurodivergent. While his formal clinical diagnosis is of ADHD, the book speaks more generally about neurodiversity and what it means to be 'weird', whether that be consistently leaving cupboard doors open, a life-long obsession with Doctor Who, a desk that is piled so high that it looks like the 'entropy fairy has fired a leaf blower at it', the distress of meltdowns, or an overwhelming sensitivity to injustice.

One thing that I really like about Robin's approach is that although the book refers to many traits that are common in neurodivergent people, it mostly steers away from linking these with specific diagnoses. Indeed, he acknowledges that his own 'weirdness' is also shaped by his own personal childhood trauma. Instead, he talks of thoughts, feelings, behaviours and anxieties that occur frequently in people with neurodivergent profiles. He draws on his own experiences, of course, but also of many others who he has met along the way – taking the reader through the full gamut of emotions, from the exhaustion of relentless masking to the joy of discovering confident vulnerability. 

The tricky decision about how and who a formal diagnosis can help is chewed over in a chapter towards the end of the book. For Robin, recognition of his ADHD provided an explanation and gave him (and his family) an operating manual. He acknowledges that not everyone needs or wants to go down this road, but also shares the stories of many who have felt like a weight was lifted when their differences were finally acknowledged and explained. 

I found myself laughing out loud one minute and letting out big gulping sobs the next – at random points and in equal measure. Sometimes, this was simply an empathic response to Robin's story and to the painful experiences of many others that he has spoken with. But also, I instantly recognised the experiences of a number of others I am close to, and at times I even saw elements of myself ('doom bags' and diary mishaps being at the top of that list). To be clear, I don't consider myself neurodivergent or to have ADHD, but I think there is a powerful and emotional relief that comes from such open acknowledgement of traits that you recognise in yourself, albeit at a much milder level.

While the book is predominantly about being neurodivergent, Robin invites us to celebrate the full range of neurodiversity and to challenge the ideological notion of what it means to be 'normal'. I came away from the book not only with more understanding of others, but also feeling a little more understood myself. Wherever we may sit on the distribution of 'typical' to 'atypical', we all have different strengths and weaknesses. If only society could be a little more accommodating of these differences, we might all be a little better off.

• See also our neurodivergence collection.