In the first chapter, I tried to understand myself. The path through my life seemed like a wild Absurdistan—a world full of contradictions and breaks, which I tried to organize with my guiding principles. At the end of the chapter, a bar chart showed my priorities: for me, family and friends are above all else, followed by the urge to develop things, achieve goals, and avoid boredom. This “statistic of my life” opens the view to the next step: it’s no longer just about external goals, but about the structures of my thinking—about the way attention, hyperactivity, sensitivity, and intelligence interact within me. This is exactly the connection I want to describe below.
Early Giftedness and Neurodiversity
Many people imagine gifted children as little wonders who understand everything immediately and shine everywhere. In my case, it was actually like that: I skipped the second grade and was among the best in all subjects. In tests for gifted children, I was above average even among the highly gifted in the areas of creativity, concentration, memory, and number sequences. With mathematics and ancient Greek as advanced courses, I got top grades, and in my final exams I received awards in Latin, Greek, chemistry, and German.
Talking about these facts is difficult for me because high intelligence often provokes rejection, envy, or resentment. It’s important to me to emphasize that IQ says nothing about a person’s worth. My neurodiversity consists of two parts: high giftedness and ADHD. I process stimuli faster, more interconnectedly, more impulsively, and more intensely. This mix influences my perception, structuring of the world, and my needs. I need enormous intellectual input to become calm inside; if it’s lacking, inner stress arises—as if my head is broadcasting on several frequencies at once.
Logical consistency is central for me. As soon as something doesn’t fit together, I have to clarify it, even if others see it as nitpicking. I don’t question traditions without meaning to provoke, but because my thinking searches for patterns. At the same time, I am hypersensitive: sounds are louder, colors more intense, emotions deeper, and ADHD amplifies this openness to stimuli. Overstimulation is not a theoretical danger for me, but a daily challenge.
These traits lead to thinking like a firework. One spark is enough, and I see connections that remain hidden to others. Math problems or complex questions practically jump at me—the result is already in my head before I’ve consciously gone through the calculation. ADHD further intensifies these spontaneous flashes of insight: they can’t be planned or tamed, but ambush me in the middle of everyday life. Often, ideas appear as finished images before my mind’s eye—graphic structures, concepts, user interfaces. It’s as if my brain has been calculating in the background and then suddenly slams the result on the table. Such inspirations are both a gift and an ambush.
This network-like thinking is both fascinating and exhausting: one thought leads to the next, every idea opens doors to further perspectives. With ADHD, it’s not only inspiring but also draining, because the mind hardly ever comes to rest and I get lost in details that others don’t even notice. A small logical gap triggers a strong feeling of disturbance in me. My drive for perfectionism sometimes paralyzes me more than it moves me forward.
It’s especially intense when a new concept flashes up not just as a thought, but as a complete image—with colors and shapes. These images often appear in seemingly trivial situations: while walking, playing with my children, or at night when my ADHD keeps my brain running nonstop. Before such an image appears, countless fragments whirl around in my head—a chaos that is as exhausting as it is exhilarating.
My high intelligence is not limited to my head, but runs through my entire organism. I react more strongly to stress, allergies, and other influences; my body is often in a kind of constant tension, as if it’s always on alert. Even forced breaks are not relaxing for me if I’m not mentally challenged. That’s also why I’m drawn to high-quality, low-stimulus things—“Simple tastes” means for me choosing a few excellent tools, clear texts, and clean models. Quality calms my nervous system; mediocrity creates noise.
Individuality Instead of Stereotypes
Although I describe myself openly here, I want to emphasize that gifted and highly gifted people have very different patterns. Not everyone processes stimuli like I do; some experience their giftedness analytically, others artistically, physically, or socially. My ADHD amplifies my individuality because it forces me to find my own ways of dealing with the diversity of stimuli. What is enriching for one person can be paralyzing for another. That’s why it’s important to me that everyone is allowed to develop their personal profile without being forced into standard expectations. This individuality is both a curse and a blessing: it makes it hard to fit in, but also gives the freedom to find your own path.
Family and Values
The diversity in my own family makes the differences tangible: one of my children is highly gifted, the other is average. Both approach the world very differently, and my own ADHD adds to the challenge of keeping the balance. It’s important to me that we live by values as a family: Everyone is different, everyone has their strengths, no one is more or less valuable. This attitude helps us see differences not as competition, but as enrichment, even though it’s not always easy in everyday life.
I know there are families where such differences lead to rifts. When a child is perceived as “too fast” or “too exhausting”—whether due to high intelligence or ADHD—tensions arise. Siblings feel left out, parents overwhelmed. In my environment, it was always a balancing act not to hide these differences, but to address them openly, so that envy, misunderstandings, or hurt feelings don’t erode relationships. Only in this way can we prevent otherness from building walls. I walk this path out of love—even though it’s exhausting.
The Challenge of Social Interaction
My network-like thinking is often a challenge for others. I notice that my speaking pace is faster than is comfortable for those I’m talking to. I tend to shoot out a lot of information and connections in a short time—it makes sense to me, but to others it seems chaotic and overwhelming. A small logical gap immediately creates pressure in me to resolve it, which makes me act impulsively. This impulsiveness is one of the reasons why conversations with me sometimes seem like leaps of thought.
I know that my way of thinking can seem threatening to others: when I point out a logical break or question habits, people feel their sense of security is shaken. This often happens impulsively, because I can’t stand to leave inconsistencies unresolved. In relationships, this has led to conflicts and misunderstandings; some people have distanced themselves. It’s hurtful when others don’t see my strengths as a resource, but as a threat, and are secretly glad when something goes wrong for me. Envy is a human feeling, almost an evolutionary protection program. With my hypersensitive perception, I sense such vibes immediately. But it’s not about being above anyone else—my drive is curiosity and the desire for meaning, not superiority.
These experiences lead to a constant balancing act between authenticity and adaptation. Either I adapt, say less, and filter the complexity of my thoughts—then I’m socially integrated, but internally underchallenged. Or I show myself as I am: direct, critical, sometimes uncomfortable—and risk people turning away. I always have to weigh whether a comment is helpful or will be perceived as an attack. This daily struggle is one of my greatest inner battles.
Social Taboos and Dealing with Intelligence
In Germany, we are especially cautious when it comes to the topic of intelligence. People are ashamed when it comes to high cognitive abilities, and the term “elite” is immediately negatively connoted. There are historical reasons for this: in National Socialism, intelligence and talent were abused to exclude and destroy people. Out of fear of arrogance, the topic is often taboo instead of being discussed in a nuanced way. For someone like me, who immediately notices inconsistencies and finds it hard to leave them unaddressed, this tension is hard to bear. I wish we could talk openly about differences without immediately making value judgments.
I am convinced that society would benefit if people like me weren’t constantly held back. My hyperintelligence allows me to quickly see new solutions, while my ADHD makes me curious and unconventional in my thinking. But often this is perceived as “too fast, too critical, too much.” It’s especially hurtful when others are happy about my mistakes or downplay my successes. From my point of view, it would be a gain if we could use these abilities as an opportunity.
Career Paths and Restlessness
Many highly gifted people are self-employed. I also realized early on that a single profession would underchallenge me in the long run. My hyperintelligence is constantly looking for new challenges, and my ADHD ensures that I need variety. So I developed various activities in parallel, started projects, helped build companies, and kept pursuing new ideas. To some, this looks like restless ambition, but in truth it’s more of an inner need to keep growing and channel my energy into something that truly challenges me. In intellectually oriented environments, I can flourish—where creativity, analytical thinking, and constant questioning are not seen as a disturbance, but as enrichment.
In traditional companies, on the other hand, I quickly feel how difficult it is to find my place. My thinking is unconventional, my ideas go beyond familiar paths, and with ADHD I tend to bring them up without much warning. For me, that’s natural; for others, it’s exhausting or threatening. I always have to ask: is my objection helpful or does it come across as an attack? This balancing act makes me aware that my way of thinking can be valuable, but requires sensitivity if I want to succeed in a team.
Not every highly gifted person is destined to be a leader. I myself didn’t strive to lead others for a long time. Leadership means working less on content and taking responsibility for other people. My hyperintelligence draws me to depth, analysis, and design. With ADHD, it’s hard for me to focus on management tasks in the long term: my mind jumps too quickly, decisions are hard for me because I constantly see new possibilities. At the same time, I know that leadership offers the chance to implement visions, but also means a lot of responsibility for others—a challenge that is especially great for someone like me.
Professional failure is not uncommon among the highly gifted. Some make it to top positions or build successful companies, while others break under overstimulation or inner restlessness. I know both sides: phases when my ADHD overactivates me so much that I hardly sleep and the pace becomes torture—a burning inside that feels like hell in my head. Then I need to withdraw to find myself again: to read, to think, to be creative. This back and forth between soaring and retreat is part of my life. To outsiders, it looks like restless striving for achievement, but for me it’s a way to find peace. My mind produces ideas nonstop; only when I give them concrete form does something relax. ADHD ensures that this flow never dries up. That’s why I’ve built a portfolio that unites many facets—monotony takes my breath away.
Coping Strategies and Learning Fields
To balance the discrepancy between under- and over-challenge, I’ve developed my own strategies. For example, when I was learning English—besides German, Latin, and Ancient Greek, the only language that interested me—I would simultaneously translate everything I heard in my head. This increased the complexity, kept me on topic, and prevented my thoughts from drifting. I often listen to lectures or chat audios at double speed; my brain is then pleasantly occupied, and my ADHD gives me the feeling of being in flow. In my free time, I deliberately seek activities that stimulate me intellectually: programming, technical literature, exchanges with other “nerds,” and now, of course, AI development. It’s a kind of self-care—a valve to channel the constant inner restlessness into constructive paths.
What’s important to me is the opportunity to learn, not just to get more material. I need challenges that are complex and just above my current level. If tasks are too easy, I don’t just feel bored, but real stress, sometimes even physical symptoms. Because of my ADHD, I feel this pressure even more intensely: my energy goes nowhere and turns against myself. Much more important than mere quantity is developing my own strategies for dealing with overload. These very skills—tolerating frustration, enduring mistakes, parking impulses—are what I would have wished for as part of the curriculum in school and university.
Restless Creativity and Withdrawal
My restless productivity also has its dark sides. I often lie awake at night because my brain is chewing over a new topic, down to the smallest branches. Books, notes, and loose sheets pile up when my ADHD and hyperintelligence start a new research journey. I’m then like remote-controlled; ideas bubble up without pause, and only when the inner puzzle is complete does the pressure subside. It’s a constant balancing act between exhilarating stimulation and the exhaustion that inevitably follows when I can’t escape the flow.
It would be a gain for society if we didn’t always have to hit the brakes. A lot of potential remains unused because people like me adapt, camouflage, or even deliberately make mistakes just so as not to be seen as “too smart” or “too different.” I remember phases when I downplayed my abilities so as not to stand out. This behavior increased my insecurity and self-doubt—questions like “Do they like me or just the role I play?” are hard to answer. This wavering between adaptation and the urge to show myself unfiltered is part of my everyday life.
I found my way by seeking a broad field—statistics. There, I can go deep and at the same time keep exploring new areas. I have worked academically, advised organizations, written books, developed seminars, launched projects, and founded companies. To others, this may look like nonstop striving for achievement; for me, it’s a way to deal with the constant activity of my brain. My ADHD constantly provides new impulses, my hyperintelligence continuous ideas—and I channel them in different directions. This mix keeps me alive and creates a form of calm, because the inner stream doesn’t run into emptiness but takes shape.
Outlook—Balance in Absurdistan
My neurodiverse mix of high giftedness and ADHD is both engine and brake. It lets me recognize patterns in split seconds, find unexpected solutions, and intuitively grasp complex models; but it also makes me sensitive, impulsive, and susceptible to overstimulation. It causes highs and crashes, phases of unbridled creativity and times of agonizing restlessness. It forces me to constantly balance: between authenticity and adaptation, between stimulation and overload, between leadership and deep work.
The journey through this chapter was an attempt to map my inner Absurdistan—not to complain, but to show how enriching and challenging neurodiverse talents are. I wish for a society that doesn’t fear this diversity, but sees it as an opportunity—a society in which people like me don’t have to constantly downplay, hide, or disguise their abilities. Because the wild Absurdistan is not just my personal state; it’s an image for the world we all live in: full of contradictions, full of potential, full of possibilities. If we learn to play with and shape it, instead of fearing it, then the chaotic fireworks in our heads can become a light that inspires others too.