Tourette, School and the “Poor Thing” Industry
Tourette’s at school: there’s one thing that always strikes me when we talk about Tourette with comorbidities — how easily a real difficulty is turned into a social destiny. It happens early, it happens quietly, and it almost always hides behind “good intentions”. You have tics, a lot of them. You disrupt the class, make teachers uncomfortable, break the rhythm. And the first response isn’t how to make it work, but how to move you out of the way without saying it out loud. Meetings, psychologists, attempts at solutions that often aren’t even truly accessible. Then comes the diagnosis, the official label, external support — and suddenly everything is fine. Not for you, for the system. From that moment on, the system can breathe. Everything is covered, everything is justified.
When Support Turns into Separation
Then the “kind solutions” begin. A free period because the poor thing is agitated. Another because today isn’t a good day. No one says it directly, but the message is clear: you are not really a student like the others. You are something to manage, not someone to educate. Support becomes routine, routine becomes an alternative path, and the alternative path becomes identity. By the time you’re eighteen you are legally an adult but not independent, often without a real qualification, without tools, without the habit of staying in a context that doesn’t adapt to you.
It Was Never About Intelligence
The most absurd part is that none of this has anything to do with intelligence. Tourette doesn’t make you stupid, it doesn’t take away your ability to understand, reason or connect; if anything, it often sharpens it. What’s missing is not cognitive ability but exposure to real life: being treated as a person, not as a permanent exception. What gets taken away is not the weight, but the chance to make mistakes, to deal with frustration, to learn to stay in discomfort without being immediately removed from the situation.
The Damage of Overprotection
The real damage isn’t Tourette. It’s overprotection disguised as inclusion. Treating someone like a “poor thing” isn’t love, it’s adult fear. It means “I don’t know how to handle you, so I lower the bar”, and piece by piece the future gets taken away. Not out of cruelty, but out of unpreparedness. And often no one has the courage to really help, starting with those who should be there: family, both personal and institutional.
When a Condition Becomes an Identity
At some point something even more subtle happens. To be accepted, many young people learn that they have to declare themselves in advance: “I have Tourette”. Labels, explanations, warnings — not to inform, but to apologise. Sorry for being disruptive, sorry for existing, sorry for not fitting in. This isn’t awareness, it’s submission. It’s internalising the idea that without a visible diagnosis you’re not acceptable. When this becomes normal, the condition stops being a condition and becomes an identity. If you don’t show it you’re not legitimate, if you don’t say it you’re suspicious. Instead of independent people, you get adults who can function only if justified.
We all see the result, but few say it out loud. Young people who can’t handle conflict, who struggle in structured environments, who don’t feel competent in anything beyond their diagnosis. And then we are surprised if, at twenty, they “don’t work”. They do. They’ve just been disarmed, trained into helplessness with the best intentions.
Tourette shouldn’t be hidden, but it shouldn’t be turned into a badge either. It’s not a calling card, not an excuse, not a brand. It’s a part of a person, not the whole person. When inclusion becomes pity and protection becomes a parking space, no one is being helped. Life just becomes easier for adults and emptier for those who come after. And no, they’re not all “stupid”. Many have simply grown up inside a padded cage, built by people who were afraid to do their job.
