Hurricane Walks: Gifted Kid Rambles

Hurricane Hilary is heading up the West Coast. As a lifelong Las Vegas resident, a hurricane is coming is an unfamiliar feeling.

Yet, as far as things I have not actually experienced go, a hurricane is coming feels almost familiar. 

I took a long break from my morning walks. Rising physical health issues, rising temperatures, and starting treatment for the restrictive eating disorder (which for me came with a compulsive exercise addiction) were the perfect storm to make me question them. I reframed my morning exercise routine as Joyful Movement, which usually boiled down to me stretching for about two minutes. But a few months later, I realized I missed my walks. My body and mind were suffering for not getting some fresh air, sunlight, real meditative time, and endorphins worth mentioning early in the day.

So today, I went on my first morning walk in a while. I did not get the sunshine in. Part of what inspired trying the walk again was a huge dip in temperature. Rather than nearing ninety degrees when it was walk time, it was much cooler. It looked gloomy, but it was perfect to get back outside, with no actual rainfall for those minutes. Usually, I think there's kind of the frog in a boiling pot effect with the weather. If I'm going on a walk at the same time every day as the temperature gradually climbs, it's not so bad. If I take a break and jump back in a few months later when it's now the peak of summer, it's brutal. Which is why, despite missing having missed my walks for a while now, today was the day to jump back in.

As I walked, I remembered the relief of mentally dumping my overactive brain out before trying to get on with my day, regretted how entrenched in perfectionism my walks had previously become, and looked around at the weather curiously. Last night, I took some pictures of an awesome rainbow, of the fiery sunset. This morning, things just looked gray. But I also have the Internet to show me beyond my view from a loop from my house, and Full Meteorology Nerd Mode has been activated. 

Strangely few people know this about me at this point, but I actually spent a decent portion of my life convinced I was going to be a meteorologist.

When I was about three, I said, "Mommy, Daddy, I wanna be a writer!" 

And my parents said, "Okay, honey," as obliging toddler parents do. 

It's sometimes pointed out that you'll notice something about the stories of gifted kids. The parents say that one day the child was at the piano and just started playing symphonies or whatnot. You ever notice that there's almost always a grand piano just sitting in their living room and their parents probably had to help them reach it? Not only is this a matter of privilege and their parents' involvement, but general environment. I, for one, grew up in a house where every room—bathrooms included—was full of books. Now, I think that's the most awesome thing ever, but of course, that environment helped form my interests. (It cannot be completely responsible, however—my sister, for example, is not as fond of books.) 

I stuck with the writer thing, though. By the time I was seven, I had heard many a joke from the grown ups around me about the concept of a Day Job. Something to pay the bills while I wrote by night. I took this with a strange seriousness in a way that only a seven year old with undiagnosed autism can. I hunted for my Dream Day Job. 

I also wasn't entirely sure that I wanted to write full time, for money. I wasn't actually sure that I wanted to be The Next JK Rowling, or The Next Anyone Else. I was also obsessed with studying the life stories of successful writers. Firstly, fame sounded exhausting. Money sounded nice, but I wasn't sure what I'd even do with a billion dollars. I was seven. I couldn't fathom that amount of money. (I still can't fathom that amount of money.) I wasn't sure I wanted to be swarmed by fans—I reluctant to order a kid's meal for myself at a restaurant. And, I heard endless tales of how soul sucking writing for a living could be. The demand to churn out what was popular, what would make money, even with no inspiration flowing. It felt like half the time I told a new grown up I wanted to be a writer, they had a million reasons why that was a bad idea. I loved to write, but I wanted to write what I loved, not churn out clickbait to pay the bills and be too burnt out to craft the novel of my dreams. I was already getting a taste of that as teachers decided extra (often boring) writing assignments were The Answer to my sense of ennui. Busy and productive are not the same. 

But then I found my own Answer, and I found it in the costliest tropical cyclone on record. 

As I was beginning second grade, the world watched the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. I was glued to the news coverage. I was no longer interested in squeezing in a few cartoons before school; I became probably the only seven year old in the world addicted to The Weather Channel. No longer entranced by the Sprouse twins, I was all in for Greg Forbes, the long time severe weather expert. I learned how to eat breakfast, take in the latest from my good buddy Greg, and make my way through the teetering pile of library books on meteorology at the same time. I had found The Answer. 

Over the following years, I made an appearance on the local news with our local weatherman. I got assigned extra projects and made presentations to my class on severe weather. I gave the weather forecast on my elementary school's television channel. I read every book on the subject I could. I remained entranced by The Weather Channel every morning before school, sometimes rising early to review my study notes. I watched other documentaries when The Weather Channel didn't have much going on. I woke up with Al Roker and studiously recorded my own meteorological observations. 

By seventh grade, I was dead set on attending a special magnet high school where I would be able to major in environmental science. I transferred to a magnet middle school from the private school I was attending for various reasons, including increased odds of getting into the high school in question. After a long battle, I began at the school's environmental science program, generally dedicating my electives to writing, continuing to be a model student with the hope of getting into a prestigious university to major in atmospheric science. Or maybe double major.

I did love meteorology. It quickly became more than a Day Job idea for me. It was my dream career, and writing was a dream passion I could pursue simultaneously. STEM by day, creativity by night—so that I could devote my creative resources to the projects I wanted without bringing capitalism or such into it. By day, I'd be able to make steady money doing something else I loved, which coincidentally leant itself to a slightly more traditional career. Specifically, I was hoping to become a severe weather expert. 

As I viewed it, this was also a form of storytelling. A lot of fields are, really, and a "gift" for storytelling will serve you well anywhere. At one point I heard something about being a realtor that stuck with me—selling a house is basically selling the story of whom the buyer will be in that house. Great entertaining space? You'll need it, because you're going to have all your fun friends over all the time. Extra bedroom? Maybe expanding the family is in your future. All the best materials and gadgets in the kitchen? All the better for all of those delicious homecooked meals you're going to be making and enjoying. 

In meteorology—especially in severe weather forecasting—storytelling can save lives. The way we portray a storm determines if people get out of its path of destruction, or falsely think they can ride it out. If disaster is heavily foreshadowed, we expect government agencies to step in and give aid (and demand change if they don't), but if it came as a plot twist, we more readily forgive them for not being ready. Of course we want to play it safe, but we also don't want to be the boy who cried wolf whom everyone stopped listening to. The science can give us an idea of when it's worth it to lay on the drama, but actually compelling people to listen is a matter of story. 

A marketing quote by Seth Godin goes, "People do not buy goods and services. They buy relations, stories, and magic." And beyond goods and services—do they buy into the need to prepare, to stay home or to evacuate, or to cooperate with the right authorities? 

Various things got in the way of my meteorologist plan. I dropped out of school in tenth grade due to a psychotic break that turned out to be the onset of paranoid schizophrenia ("creative differences"). After a year of "advanced homeschooling" (running around town with the local National Novel Writing Month chapter), I "graduated a year early". I never got far with college. A traditional hard science career generally requiring an advanced degree no longer seemed to be in my future. Writing, though, stuck. But I still didn't want to get some soul sucking journalism job to pay the bills. (I did, very briefly, write clickbait as a freelancer, and I am more than happy to have been replaced by AI in that respect.) 

Ultimately, I found another passion in homemaking, and found the right partner. I also stumbled into real estate investment via inheriting my childhood home and making good choices with it. Now, I get to write what I want (and work on other projects as I please), and not worry if it pays the mortgage or only makes a nice side hustle equivalent thanks to generous readers, but focus on being good and prolific. 

In a way, I do feel it is a gift to have found a deep, lifelong passion in writing so early. I do not think I have a gift for writing (my early works certainly show that) so much as the gift of obsession, onto which a passion for writing was stacked. A quote by Steven Millhauser says, "For what is genius, I ask you, but the capacity to be obsessed?" 

I looked into what we're calling the traits of a gifted child these days. Something about the lists struck me: that a significant percentage of them were basically the capacity to be obsessed, and that a significant percentage of them were also trademark symptoms of autism and/or ADHD (which are generally portrayed as curses more than gifts). I also am often told that, as a schizophrenic, had I been born in biblical times, I would be a prophet, not a psychotic. "The psychotic drowns in the same waters in which the mystic swims with delight," is a Joseph Campbell quote I received during an exchange about the parallels between psychosis and mysticism. The obsessive manic episodes I've had were both unbalanced and dysfunctional, and sometimes... creative and productive.

So, what is a blessing and what is a curse? It isn't a black and white matter, of course, and it depends upon your unique perspective, whether or not you have the privilege of taking advantage of the positives and treating the negatives, and the bigger picture (all of the positives and negatives you possess and to which extent). Culture—time and place—is a huge factor. With what I said about storytelling being crucial—what is the story the society around us tells about this trait: is it a blessing or a curse?  

I think ultimately, part of the problem is looking at the chosen passion as the gift instead of the capacity. Firstly, to say I simply have a gift for writing undermines the decades and millions of words I have put in to getting where I am (a product of passion), along with everyone who gave me the feedback, skills, and encouragement that brought me here. Productivity is a learned skill. Forgetting that the visible form of the gift is a product of hard work driven by passion is what makes us focus on the results instead of the effort, often driving gifted kids to give up easily when confronted with a challenge (having been told that they are/should be "naturally" good at things), or, on the flip side, have no respect for their own limits (having never been warned of where obsession can lead), leading to that famous Former Gifted Kid Burnout. 

Secondly, it ignores the root gift of obsession that really defines a gifted child and is often a rather mixed bag. I think that being branded a Gifted Kid is a huge part of not only why I am prone to working myself straight into burnout, but also why I wasn't diagnosed with autism until I was seventeen. Had I been made to understand sooner my own limitations and the drawbacks that came with my gift, I could have gone, "Oh, that's why!" and addressed certain things and learned certain coping skills that much sooner, from noise cancelling headphones to how to fake eye contact to fidget toys to deep breathing when my routine is disrupted. (Or, the balance of going on repetitive walks that help me clear my head and be more productive without it becoming a compulsive addiction.) 

There is a dark side to our society's obsession with gifted kids, I think. When something is extreme, we want to see just how far it can go. Gifted kids of all levels and types are frequently told how much potential they have, that they can do anything if they set their mind to it, and are often pushed to their limits, running at 101% capacity while confronting a jealous and competitive world. No wonder I, and so many others like me, got horribly burnt out.

In explaining to these kids how much they can and “should” do (with not living up to your potential often framed as the worst thing one can do, despite the fact that not using every ounce of your energy is actually very healthy), we fail to show them where their limits are, teach them how to set boundaries, teach them that they are an asset they need to protect, teach them how to take care of themselves. We teach them that they need to be challenged, often in any way the adults feel like, often regardless of their actual skills or passions. (Like pushing them into "practical" STEM careers and neglecting the arts.)

I don't have all the answers. Just my own story, questions that I think more of us should ask, things that I think we should be more aware of. 

And a burning desire to go back to watching The Weather Channel.