In birding, there’s something called a “spark bird” — the bird that, when you first see it in the wild, truly gets you hooked on birding. But this was my spark moment, when I realized my tics were not “normal” and that I needed to hide them if I wanted to be normal.
If my mom made any connection between that kid we saw on TV and me, she didn’t mention it, and my parents didn’t take me to a neurologist to have me checked out. Because of that TV program, I assumed, wrongly, that having Tourette meant shouting obscenities in public. I learned that this version of Tourette is called coprolalia and, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, it “only affects about 1 in 10 people with Tourette.” It is not as common as popular media likes to portray it.
For me, ticcing has always meant a near-constant urge to do things with my body. “Urge” may not be the right word for these head jerks, blinks, snorts, grunts, throat clearings, tongue clicks, etc., but it’s the best I’ve got. From the moment I wake up to the moment I fall asleep, my body seems to have a will of its own. In any given hour, I probably tic at least 100 times. During periods of great stress, like when I rear-ended that car, my tics are like a parasitic fungus that assumes total control over my body.
Nobody wants to twitch or make weird noises in public — to be the person people crane their necks to see. What’s wrong with this guy? you imagine them thinking. After getting called out by my teacher, I only wanted to blend in — to become invisible — because when you’re in elementary school, you don’t want to be seen as a freak. You want to be like everyone else.
I couldn’t stop ticcing, but I discovered that I could make it less obvious. To shield myself from shame and embarrassment, I developed an arsenal of tic-hiding strategies. Instead of jerking my head, I would put my hand underneath the table and waggle my fingers or ball my fists repeatedly. Instead of snorting or chuffing — obvious and strange sounds — I’d click my tongue softly, like an irregular metronome.
These tricks satisfied my near-constant urge to tic and kept me mostly hidden from view. I wasn’t bullied or teased in school, as kids and adults with tics often are, but I probably would have been if I hadn’t learned how to control my tics.
I’ve been using these tricks ever since.
When I’m out in public today, I’m keenly aware of my internal pressure to tic, but I’ve become adept at suppressing it, bottling it up and capping it tight. At home, where I’m free to be myself, it’s a very different story. My tics come and go.
Six months ago, I began squirting air from my mouth the way someone might blow hair off their face; a few weeks later, I started hocking as though to spit a loogie. Like uninvited guests overstaying their welcome, both tics remain with me as I write these words. Sometimes a particular tic will go away only to return a year later, like an exasperating big brother who’d gone off to college and come home with a sly grin and a shaggy beard.
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