mental health

I spent most of my life, as many women do, second guessing my gut feelings. I cannot tell you how many opportunities slipped through my fingers, how many bridges were burned, and how much money I have lost or wasted because I skipped the gut feeling. But gut feelings matter just as much as reason and science. Gut feelings are part of the equation, not a separate entity to be discredited entirely just because some people don't understand.

You and I are creatures of habit. And our habit is to be busy. Occupied. Focused on creating and maintaining momentum and a functional life.

There's nothing wrong with taking a break to recharge and re-center.

Things as simple as a missed call from an unknown number or someone knocking on your door put me into straight up fight or flight. I really do hide from people who come to my door. Real talk, I have gotten on my hands and knees below a window so they wouldn’t see me. I’ve even hidden in the closet. I know. Whacko.

As a former therapist who used to see a lot of children, I understand why parents and teachers want to get a child’s ADHD under control. It’s like a GIF personified, and you can’t look away even when you want to. Whether it’s your own ADHD, your child’s, your spouse’s, or even your close friend’s, it’s easy to only see the negatives without knowing there are loads of benefits. Yes, it’s good to have ADHD. Here’s why.

In early adulthood, the bipolar disorder that was my genetic destiny was pushed around — shuffled from doctor to doctor, city to city, misdiagnosis to misdiagnosis. Deeply distressed, consumed by sadness after the birth of my first child, they called it “postpartum depression.” If I had manic energy, they called it “drive” or “passion” or “dedication.” Snap decisions, irresponsible, risky, promiscuous behavior — it was just “life learning.” I never finished anything I started, something always got in the way.

The first time I was inspired to injure myself was when I was thirteen. I had just read Reviving Ophelia: Saving the Selves of Adolescent Girls, an advice book my mother had hidden on the shelf between some garish ceramic dancing girls, books on cocker spaniels, and her and my father’s decaying wedding cake topper. In the book, a well-meaning psychologist told stories about teenage girls acting out, and self-injury was just one of many ways. I wasn’t the type to climb out the window on a rope made of bed sheets, so self-harm made a lot of sense.

My fears of dependence were so potent that I decided to quit meds for good. Though I didn’t just throw away mental healthcare, mind you, since I had been, and planned on continuing to go, to weekly therapy sessions. I wanted to find other ways to manage my mental illness without popping pills on the daily.