“Is the Burger Answering?”

On ADHD, visibility, and being someone else’s punchline.

I was 10 or 11, walking home from McDonald’s, holding my takeout bag, in my own world. Echolalia in full force. Singing to myself, talking to myself.
I was replaying the exchange I had with the McDonald’s cashier in my head. Wondering if I sounded weird. If I said the right thing.

Then a car slowed down. A grown man leaned out the window. Two boys in the backseat. He yelled, “Is the burger answering?”
They all laughed like it’s the funniest thing as he drove off. I just stood there. Frozen. Until that moment, I didn’t think anyone would bother looking at me.
I was just a kid with a bag of food.
Nothing worth noticing. Nothing worth laughing at.
Was I that amusing? Just by being myself?

I ran home. After that, I never walked that way again if I could help it.

A few years later, I was 14, maybe 15. A little chubbier.

Another man. Close to that area. Different car.
He yelled out, “When are you due?” like I was pregnant. Like it was funny.

Now, it wasn’t just what I did and how I acted. It was also what I looked like.
It was everything.
It was all the time.
It was everywhere.
I couldn’t escape it.
I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening.
It was relentless.

---

This is the Truman Show effect. In the movie, Jim Carrey plays a man raised in a giant TV studio. Everyone around him is an actor. He doesn’t know. The movie is about him slowly realizing everyone’s watching, and he’s never truly alone.

When I saw that movie, it felt like a punch. That’s exactly what it felt like to be me. It still feels like that sometimes, like I’m being watched. Judged. Laughed at. And I don’t know why, or what makes me so interesting to these people who don’t know me, who don’t care about me, who want to have a laugh at my expense.

It’s not paranoia or delusion. It’s not thinking I’m the center of the universe. It’s realizing I’m more visible than I thought.

And what does that mean?
Why should I care?
Why does nobody prepare you for the moment you realize you’re not invisible, not safe, not protected?
You’re out there. Raw. Exposed.
And anyone can say anything. Do anything.
And you have to take it and keep it moving.

I remember the shock. The embarrassment. The shame. So much anger.
I thought about it for years. I still think about it.

It changed me.
It made me hyper-aware.
It made me edit myself.
It made me question every word and gesture.

And it made me wonder: what’s so special about me?
Why do people care?

And the answer is, they don’t.
Not in any way that matters.

But in that moment, it feels like they do.
It feels like everything you do, everything you are is under a microscope.

And if you’re neurodivergent, if you have ADHD, if you have anxiety, if you’re different, it’s worse.
Because you’re already replaying every conversation, every interaction, every mistake in your head.
And then someone comes along and confirms your worst fears, and it’s like, thanks. I really needed that.

Talking to myself was soothing. It was healthy. It was good. A way to process. A way to self-soothe. A way not to rely on friends who might not say the right thing, or get it, or care.
And then, suddenly, it’s not safe anymore. Suddenly it’s embarrassing, something to hide.
And that’s not fair. But it’s real. And it sticks with you.

---

I started living like I was being watched. Explaining myself to an invisible audience so as not to be misinterpreted, trying to make sure nobody thought I was “weird.” Which is weirder.

It’s exhausting. And it never goes away. Not completely.
Not if you’ve been burned like that.
Not if you’ve been made to feel like a spectacle.

And people without ADHD or neurodivergence—I don’t think they get it.
I don’t think they’ve ever talked to themselves or hummed under their breath just to stay steady.
And I don’t think they know what it’s like to be picked apart for it. To be made to feel like you’re wrong for existing.
For being yourself.

It’s like, you walk down the street and notice people looking at you.
But you’ve had enough negative feedback, so your brain assumes the worst.
It picks you apart.
It finds reasons why you’re being stared at.
And you try to fix it.

It’s a minefield.
And it’s not okay.

---

If I could go back to that moment with the burger, I don’t know what I’d say.
Maybe nothing.
Maybe I’d stare at him.
Maybe I’d tell him that boring people find interesting people ridiculous, and that’s his problem.

But… it still shapes how I move through the world. And I hate that.

But here’s the thing: when someone looks at you, when someone thinks any thought about you, you have no idea what it is.
And it probably has nothing to do with you.
And if it does, who cares?

Why should you let them take up space in your head?
Why should you let them have any power over you?

The answer is: you shouldn’t. You can’t.
You have to take your power back.
You have to remember their opinions are just noise. Static. Background bullshit.
And you don’t have to listen.
You don’t have to care.
You don’t have to change.

And if someone thinks you’re weird, or embarrassing, or whatever—okay. That’s their problem, not yours.
If they want to make you important in their world, fine.
But don’t let them become important in yours.
Don’t give them that.
Don’t let them win.

Because you’re not Truman.
You’re not the star of their show.
You’re the star of your own, and that’s what matters. That’s all that ever mattered.
And fuck anyone who tries to make you feel otherwise.