Lindy Kato (Writer)

I have finished the trilogy which I’ve called The Fall and Rise of Lindy Kato. It’s the story I HAD to tell, mostly I guess to make sense of it all myself. It wouldn’t squash into one book; the parts are quite different and might well have different readers. For the students who think nursing is all flowers and chocolates I’ve written Desperate Times, the story of my own nurse training and a reality check for them. Bleak Expectations (what happened next) is written for all those people who have been misunderstood or their voices not heard. It was harrowing to write but bits have fallen into place in ways I didn’t expect, and science has moved in such a way that things which had never made any sense before suddenly are clear. Now Acts of Defiance (out in the next month or so) is part travelogue, part guide to completing an Ironman and describes my fight back against wrongs inflicted on me, and I’m not alone.

Not being of a violent nature – there was never going to be a punch up – it’s done and dusted on my terms. I won’t be bored; I’m already working on Nudge’s story. Nudge has a tale of his own, but he’s a dog, no opposable thumb and he can’t write, so I’m doing it for him.

I’ve always thought I must be an extrovert because I’ll talk to anyone, but finishing Acts of Defiance reminded me how much I appreciate solitude, perhaps because I’m a nerd as well. I’m genuinely interested in anyone else’s story, mostly, I think it’s because I find it hard to understand a lot of people. Last month my blog was mainly about neurodiversity, and I claimed I could smash the ADHD test and I probably could. I was sedated (phenobarbitone) at three months old. Mum was told I had brain too advanced for body. I would genuinely like to hear from anyone who was or knows a qualified medical doctor from the 1950s. I want to know if this was taught in medical school or made up by the GP to pacify my mother. I walked at eight months despite the sedation, so I don’t see my body was far behind!

Don’t anyone be giving my poor (now deceased) mother the side eye, because in those days working class parents in the UK, did not question their doctor who had a god-like status.

The treatment was continued until I was five but because we moved hemispheres and the new Australian doctor refused to drug a five-year-old when there was nothing wrong, treatment stopped. Perhaps today I would have been diagnosed with ADHD (surely not at three months?), but the other fact was I had chilblains in my hands which are painful. I was supposed to wear mittens all the time, but I would get them off, so they were tied on. I suspect it contributed to the racket I made. I still sleep in gloves all year. Around a decade ago I got into such a state that I couldn’t tie my own shoelaces, or knit, or hold a pen properly so I’m super careful about my hands.

Then the other day at work, my colleagues were discussing some new clothing item (I don’t understand fashion) so I politely enquire if this is something I need to know about. One of the tutors turned to me and said, “Well no, you have your own style.” You have to be me to realise how hilarious this is. I pick from the floordrobe whatever is clean and fits, usually two items, top and bottom though I do have some frocks and then I must decide running shorts or leggings because I hate knickers under dresses. My only consideration of matching, is a hair tie of an appropriate colour and the only reason I even have a hair tie, is because loose hair messes with my hearing aids. I cut it every now and then with the kitchen scissors and my sweetheart refuses to straighten it up.

I shop at one shop, it isn’t a clothes shop, it’s a tourist place that sells clothes of indeterminate size. I never buy online because the feel of the fabric matters. If I need something for a special occasion – I’ll never find it (because I won’t look far and I never find exactly what’s in my head) so I end up making what I want even if it means transmogrifying a pattern to make what’s in my imagination.

However last night I found an old New Scientist (16 Aug 2025) and this little paragraph about a newly described personality type, the otrovert (a term coined by Dr. Rami Kaminski), jumped out at me.

Given that you can’t be thrown out of a group to which you don’t belong, you have no fear of such social rejection [the previous passage had been talking about ostracism]. You don’t seek external validation, nor do you rely on others for emotional support. You don’t feel the need to convince anyone of anything, least of all your own worth.

That’s me to a tee, like me or loath me. It isn’t a condition that needs fixing. I’m female and heterosexual but never have I understood handbags, make up or nail polish. Another thing I never understood is religion. I’m envious of those that have a God, succour, forgiveness and all that, but I can’t take any comfort from it because I simply don’t get it. I can’t even believe in an afterlife. If there was one it would be where all the better versions of me exist and they’ll gloat, I know they will.

I’ve looked more deeply into this otrovert business, you can be anywhere along any spectrum and still be introvert, extrovert, ambivert, omnivert or otrovert (and probably anything else you like), how complex we all are. The word ‘otro’ comes from the Spanish for ‘other’ and although I am socially ept, I’ve never really been part of the group but more importantly, I’ve never cared. Long live the kaleidoscope of difference.