They said I were queer.
Not right.
Soft in t’head.

Too sharp wi’ words
to be struggling so much.
As if talking well
meant living easy.

But mi brain’s built like t’moors —
two weathers running at once.

One side wants order:
stones lined neat,
cups same way round,
quiet thick as fog
settling in bones.

Other side’s a startled hare,
off like a shot mid-thought,
kettle left screaming,
keys dumped wi’ milk,
mind gone wandering.

AuDHD, they call it now.
New name.
Same old fight.

I weren’t lazy.
I were spent.
Weren’t rude —
I were drowning in sound.

Lights drilling mi skull.
Voices clattering
like market day
inside mi head.

I learned early
to hold it together.
Smile proper.
Speak nice.
Sound capable.

That were mi biggest mistake.

They heard mi words
an’ missed mi body
lagging behind.
Missed how every little thing
took summat out of me.

I weren’t failing —
I were surviving
on double effort.

I’m not broken.
I’m precise.

I notice things
others walk past.
Feel grief in old walls.
Hear land remembering feet
long gone.

That’s not weakness.
That’s weight.

So if I need quiet,
or order,
or a bath at four
wi’ curtains drawn —
that’s not giving in.

That’s me keeping going.

I walk this life
like I walk moors:
steady,
watchful,
head full o’ weather,
heart open,
doing best I can
wi’ what I were given.

There’s nowt wrong wi’ me.

—Frost ❄️

Author’s Note

This poem is written in Yorkshire dialect on purpose.

It’s the language of where I’m from, the land that raised me, and the rhythm my thoughts fall into when I stop translating myself for other people.

I’m late-diagnosed AuDHD. For most of my life, my ability to speak well was mistaken for ease, capacity, and resilience. It wasn’t. It was masking. It was survival. It was learning how to sound fine while my body quietly took the strain.

This isn’t a poem about being broken.
It’s about being misread.

Dialect matters here because standard language often demands polish, order, and performance — the very things that cost neurodivergent people the most energy. Writing this way is an act of honesty, not nostalgia.

If some of it feels unfamiliar, that’s okay.

Sit with it. Let it be what it is.

There’s nowt wrong wi’ us.