I originally posted this on my Facebook and Instagram pages (@thejessajoyce, if you’re curious), but I wanted to share this brief little write-up here as well. It’s so important to get this message out there since more often than not, the theoretical future of society and the fight to better it is co-opted by straight, cis, white, non-disabled people in an effort to tear down people who are not like them. I want to present a counter-argument. If all lives truly matter, as many on the political right say, and we must “think of the children,” my future children should be considered as well. There is room for everyone at the table of life, and we need to remember that this Easter.
Reading this book (Feminist Queer Crip by Alison Kafer) at the suggestion of one of my favorite professors for my capstone project on autism, and it feels especially poignant in the days of #blacklivesmatter and #SaveTheChildren and #autismawarenessmonth and the recent fight against drag and transgender rights. The first chapter talks a lot about the Child — the personification of the future of society — who is often politicized and weaponized. Think of the children, people say. The image of the Child is more often than not a white cishet non-disabled child born to white cishet non-disabled parents. This Child absolutely matters. But I’m not interested in fighting for him, not because I don’t care about him, but because he already has enough people fighting for his right to exist in peace. Instead, I want to fight for my children.
In a few short years, I’ll likely have a child of my own. That child will likely have a disability of some sort, or rather, a difference that makes it harder to exist in a world that isn’t built for her. Considering my family history, she’ll likely be autistic or ADHD. Depending on our donor, she will likely be at least part black, and she’ll have queer parents who will support her should she eventually come to terms with her own queerness. And guess what? Her life will matter too. She should have a right to exist in peace alongside the theoretical Child described above. I want her to have a future too.
That’s why it’s so important to keep fighting for equality. I feel like it’s important to note that it’s Easter Sunday as I post this. I am a Christian through and through, despite the fact that I don’t “fit” the American Evangelical mold, and I firmly believe that Christ died for EVERYONE. Not just white Americans or straight people or cisgender people or able-bodied and able-minded people. We are all wonderfully made and we all should have a right to inhabit this beautiful planet. This post is a call to prayer and more importantly, a call to action. We need to be a light to this sometimes dark and scary world. We need to keep fighting the good fight.
Full disclosure: I started using the good ol’ Mary Joanna to help me sleep at night. Yeah yeah, I know that technically means I’m not sober by the broadest definition of the term, despite being alcohol-free for about a year new (hell yeah). But I use it medicinally to help with my constant waking up in the middle of the night, and honestly, it does help me get a more restful sleep
Sometimes after I smoke, I don’t immediately fall asleep, and when that happens, I either get horny, paranoid, or philosophical. It’s kind of a crapshoot every time which of my high personalities shows up. It’s usually the one I don’t want at the time, which means using it as an aphrodisiac is a gamble.
“Jess, this is not the time to ramble about how we’re living in a simulation.”
Last night, though, I had a strange experience. My wife was giving me a pep talk regarding my mental health, which has been pretty bad as of late. Nothing concerning, just the usual “What if life is meaningless and everything I do will eventually be forgotten?” Which is pretty heavy stuff to think about literally every second of the day, and I’ve been in this mindset for most of my life. Yay, anxiety!
But, in my high, pseudo-intellectual stupor, something my wife said really itched a part of me I didn’t know I needed to reach — the past Jesses (is that the proper plural of Jess?).
I haven’t been nice to past me. Not any of them. I tend to think of my past selves as different people, instead of a cohesive part of who I became. I look at Child Jess through my adult eyes and judge her unfairly for being, well, an outcast. A pariah. The weird autistic little girl who stims by spinning around in the back of the classroom and making bird sounds. I get mad at my younger self for having the nerve to not fit in and be popular. And as my wife said, that little girl is a part of me still, and every time I resent my childhood eccentricities, I bully her the same way I was bullied by other people.
PROTECT THIS CHILD.
Then I think of College Jess. The me who was skinny and outgoing and optimistic and popular and excelled at school despite barely trying. Although she’s a part of me as well, I resent her for being all the things I wish I was now. I’m jealous of a past version of me! It makes no sense when I really think about it — at that time, my mental illnesses were worse than they’d ever been before, and I’d sooner saw off my own pinky toe with a nail file before I’d willingly deal with my OCD at its worst again. But I only see this rose-tinted version of the past, with this girl who is infuriatingly everything I want to be. Everything I was.
Yes, I was that bitch.
The thing is, these aren’t two different people. They’re all me, and they’ve taken me to where I am now. And honestly, where I am now isn’t that bad. I have a wife and a girlfriend I love dearly (that poly life, I’m tellin’ ya). I’m back in school for music therapy, and I’m closer than ever to getting this degree. I even won a scholarship for it! I’m about to be debt-free, and I’m working on getting back in shape. And despite my depression being ever-present, my mental health has never been better. Everything is falling into place for once, and I owe it all to my past selves for bringing me to this place. I started thinking of these past selves as an Inside Out-type of inner council that influences my day to day decisions and emotions.
It’s going to be a process, but I’ve started making peace with my past. I want to continue to honor and integrate these past versions of Jess into myself as a whole. Writing this out was my first step in healing these broken pieces of me. If your brain works at all like mine, I hope this little blog post helps you, too.
Damn it, Rina Sawayama. This website is going to turn into a fan blog if you keep this up.
I swear this woman lives rent free in my head.
I was on my way to work, listening to her as per usual, when her song “Phantom” came on. I’d listened to it in passing, but I never really listened to it. The second verse just hit me like a truckload of turkeys.
If I could talk to you, I’d tell you not to rush You’re good enough You don’t have to lose, what makes you you Still got some growing to do
When did we get so estranged Haunted by the way I’ve changed Claiming back the pieces of me that I’ve lost Reaching in and hoping you’re still, waiting by the windowsill I’d bring you back to us
I wasn’t a popular kid. Quite the opposite, actually. A lot of it, looking back, was because of my (finally freaking diagnosed) ADHD and (still freaking undiagnosed) autism. I was the weird kid who spun around in the back of the classroom and stimmed by making parakeet sounds. I had special interests like 8-track tapes and Bon Jovi, stuff “normal” kids thought were strange. I had sensory issues when it came to smell and gagged at the scent of ranch dressing, which my peers loved to torment me with. I had to eat lunch in the library to avoid being pelted with the stuff! And it’s so easy for me to forget that I used to come home from school crying every day because kids are so fucking cruel.
What changed?
In the autistic community, there’s a term called “masking.” You hide parts of yourself to fit in. You learn to “pass” as neurotypical, because there’s no other way for people to love you. When I got into middle school, something flipped. I methodically studied what the “cool kids” were wearing and doing, and made myself into a caricature of who I really was in order to be the “most popular” version of myself. I clipped my own colorful wings to become something I wasn’t, all for my peers’ approval. And it worked. By senior year, I was unrecognizable. By college, I was — dare I say — popular. But little Jess—
—that Jess was dead. And I killed her.
I’ve brought up getting a proper autism diagnosis to my therapists several times, and each time I get almost laughed out of the clinic. But you’re so popular, and social. You don’t look autistic, whatever that means. You don’t go on and on about your special interests — because I learned early on that talking about the color of Richie Sambora’s toothbrush would get me ostracized. You don’t stim — because making silly little sounds and moving my body in ways that make me feel good aren’t “socially acceptable.” You don’t have sensory issues — because I had to force myself to deal with things that made me really uncomfortable, because otherwise, no one would like me.
I broke my own bones to fit in someone else’s box, and left me with a phantom of myself.
I wish I could tell my younger self that she doesn’t need to change to fit in. That she doesn’t need to hide entire parts of herself. That she’s valuable the way she is, and doesn’t need to change. That’s why autism acceptable — not just awareness — is so important. Because somewhere, some little girl is feeling the exact way I felt back then. And I don’t want her to feel like she needs to kill her autistic self in order to be loved.
I hope she’s still there, waiting by the windowsill.
So, this is it. The last blog post of 2022 (probably). And I even redecorated for the occasion! Like the new color scheme? I had to incorporate bluey-green, because it’s my favorite color, but the brown just takes it to the next level, right?
I also had to update my picture. I haven’t been blonde for a hot minute, which is so weird to me, but fitting. My teens were blonde, my 20s were weird hair colors, and my 30s will be black. I’m like a Pokémon that changes colors as it evolves, and I feel like I’m finally evolving into the most powerful version of myself. I’m about to reach level 30 and become a mighty electrifying Ampharos after spending several levels as a cute, nonthreatening Flaafy.
Now I just need an Ampharosite so I can have badass hair.
This evolution has brought on a lot of changes, many of which I’ve documented in this blog. I stopped drinking entirely, which is wild to me because I love beer (hit me with your best non-alcoholic beer recommendations in the comments, readers!). It just wasn’t serving me anymore and was causing more damage to my body and mind than I liked. In addition, I got formally diagnosed with ADHD and bipolar disorder and started taking the medications I actually need. Those two changes alone have been revolutionary. I’m not the same person I was this time last year by any stretch of the imagination, and it feels good. I wasn’t a huge fan of that version of me. I like this one more.
But the thing about evolution is that it doesn’t stop happening. In order to be the absolute best version of myself, I need to keep working on the most important project I’ll ever be tasked with — Jess J. Salisbury. Me, the person. Not the blog, although that’s a part of it.
The new year is supposed to be a time of setting goals and making resolutions, many of which won’t make it to the end of January, much less the end of the year. I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want to set goals I can easily set aside at the first sign of failure. My goal is to hit the gym at least three times a week. So what happens when I have a busy week and fall off for a few days? Do I just give up? That’s why I don’t like viewing my goals as “resolutions.” Instead, they’re part of a sort of year-long bucket list.
So what do I plan to do? I’m glad you asked! I’ll start with the goal that’s most pertinent to this website.
Two blog posts a week
That’s right. No less than two blog posts any given week. If I screw up one week, I’m challenging myself to jump back on it the next week. I recently wrote a post about the direction I want to take this blog, but feel free to drop more ideas for things you want to see here. I’m thinking more music musings, some book reviews, maybe some more spiritual stuff, and of course, my guide to living with ADHD, as well as the fiction I’ve been working on. There’s no shortage of things I like writing about, so make sure to keep checking back for new content often!
Keep a planner all year
I started keeping a planner a few months back. Surprise! It’s done wonders for my mental health as well as my organizational skills. My initial trick was to get a subscription to a monthly planner, so every month I’d have fresh new pages with new prompts and visuals to keep my attention. But then, the unthinkable happened — my December planner got lost in the move! Thinking quickly, I downloaded an app called Zinnia, which is essentially a journaling app for your phone. And this has been ridiculously helpful for me, since I’m on my phone all the time anyways. I can’t leave it at home. It’s always with me, everywhere, all the time.
Get down to my goal weight of 140
Ah yes, the dreaded weight loss resolution that everyone either makes or makes a blog post decrying. Yes, losing weight for vanity reasons is a slippery slope into nasty things like eating disorders, and I’m first in line to support the body positivity movement. But here’s the thing about being body positive — it only works if you’re treating said body positively. I gained a lot of weight over the last several years, and I’ve realized I can’t blame it all on my psychiatric meds, especially now that I’m taking Adderall, which should balance the antidepressant weight gain out. No, I gained this weight because I’ve treated this temple like a freaking dive bar, poisoning it with copious amounts of alcohol and greasy low-nutrient foods. This extra weight I carry is a physical manifestation of the baggage that came with being a compulsive binge eater in the beginning stages of alcoholism. I’ve cut out those two habits and already dropped nearly 30 pounds. Now I’m adding the habit of working out regularly and staying active, and I haven’t felt this good since I was in high school and in the best shape of my life. By the end of 2023, I should be down to my pre-gain size, and I’m so ready.
Become conversational in Arabic
Wallah, I mean it this time. It’s easy to forget in my white British-American English-speaking bubble that nearly half of the world is bilingual, but working at my new job has made me acutely aware of how much I suck as a global citizen. Like, I’m useless in any country that wasn’t once taken over by the Brits. But nearly everyone I work with is bilingual. I live in an area with a pretty hefty Arab population, and most of my coworkers and several of our patients can speak Arabic with ease. I don’t exactly plan on being a diplomat to Egypt or a Quranic scholar, so I’m not holding myself to incredibly high standards here. I just want to be able to say basic sentences and hold a conversation in Arabic. Right now, I know how to say “hi,” “bye,” and “give me bread,” which is useful if I’m ever like, in a dire bread emergency in Lebanon or something, but it would be nice to know some pharmacy-specific phrases.
Do 75Hard AT LEAST ONCE
I tried this already. Remember that? Just one of the dozens of things I’ve started and didn’t finish? I’ve been using the “bUt I hAvE aDhD” excuse for too long. Okay, so lots of successful people have ADHD. They’re not whining about how they can’t finish the thing. They’re out there, taking their Adderall and meditating and doing everything they can to do the damn thing. And that’s what I want to do. So 75Hard is a bunch of arbitrary rules you have to follow for 75 days. But I’m gonna follow them if it kills me, just to prove to myself that I have self-discipline, the thing that has evaded me my whole life. I don’t know when I’m going to do this (although it will probably be in the summer when it’s nicer out and I don’t have to do my daily outdoor workouts in a blizzard like a psychopath), but I want to do it once. Just so I can say that I did it.
Release WUJ 2023
Speaking of things I’ve started and never finished, I’ve been saying new music is on the way since our last release, “If I Stay,” which came out more than a year ago. This isn’t just a “me” thing, since I’m only one member of the band and this will be a group effort, but as the frontwoman, I need to make sure we keep moving in the right direction. I’m tired of stagnating as a musician. I write songs to be heard by others, and if no one’s hearing us, what’s the point of having a band? And speaking of which, I want to be more “on top” of our social media this year. People need to hear us, and if it takes TikTok or Instagram to get our music out there, so be it. The world is changing and so is the music industry. I need to take advantage of modern social media and learn how to use it to get us noticed. And speaking of music, there’s my final, most crucial goal for the year.
Finish my classes with at least a B and get that music therapy degree (finally)
That’s it. The degree I’ve been working toward for literally twelve years is so close to being mine. I started down the road to being a music therapist at 18, when my parents convinced me to change my major from pre-med to music (unlike every other parent ever), but I came to the conclusion that I was too mentally ill and messed up to ever help anyone else. And that’s a fucking lie. I now believe my mental illnesses and neurodivergences will make me a better music therapist because I’ve been on the other side. I will know how my clients’ minds work even better than a neurotypical music therapist would because I’m one of them. And now I have the tools, medications, and coping mechanisms I need to make it through the schooling I need. It’s too late to turn back now. I’m going to get this degree and get a fancy little “MT-BC” after my name, once and for all.
And there you have it. I’m done with being mediocre. Only I have the power to change my life for the better, and this is the year I finally do it.
The thing about us ADHD folks is we’re natural daydreamers. It’s in our wiring. Many of us are so lost in our own heads we don’t notice what’s around us (or perhaps that’s a “me” problem, I don’t know).
Me, I’ve always loved to daydream about the future. It’s fun for me to imagine where I’ll be in 5, 10, 15 years or so. Of course, I’m at the age where I’ve done imagined myself now. Like, 13-year-old Jess imagined being 30, and in those daydreams, I was Richie Sambora. I am now closing in on 30, and I am still not Richie Sambora.
What all 13-year-old girls aspire to be, right?
But I still find things to look forward to. Maybe it’s the optimist in me. Sure, shitty things are going to happen, like, ya know, my parents dying, and my older siblings dying, and all my friends dying (unless I die first, which would also be sucky because, well, being dead). But there’s a ton I still have yet to do.
The thing is — going back to the dying thing — I have this nagging fear that I’m going to die before doing all the things I want to do. Not because life is short, but because my attention span is.
I think a lot about the story I’ve been writing since I was in high school, but could never sit down and write because of my ADHD. Or the music therapy degree I’ve been working on since 2011 but put on hold twice because I couldn’t handle the coursework due to my ADHD. Or the multitudinous amounts of things I haven’t been able to do because of being broke, which mostly circles back to me spending my money as soon as I get it because I like instant gratification because— get this — I’m ADHD.
Everything I haven’t done in life is because of my ADHD.
Maybe this is you. Maybe you have a million things you want or want to do before you die, but it all feels so unattainable. This isn’t just an ADHD thing, either. It’s a human thing. So if you’re reading this and are not ADHD, here’s a tip you can use too.
Create a “why” board. Put pictures representing your ideal life into a collage, and put that shit everywhere. As your lock screen, on your fridge, on your bathroom mirror, wherever you’ll see it daily. This collage represents why you’re doing what you do. These are the reasons you go to work, or study for your tests, or save your money.
“But Jess, isn’t that just a vision board?” Well, kind of. But this goes further than just Pinterest-worthy magazine cutouts. This is your plan for your life. Make it personal. Imagine what your dream house would look like and find it on Zillow. Imagine your dream career and Google the uniform or outfit you’d likely wear. If kids are part of your plan, search for pictures of children that look like you and your actual or imagined partner, which is definitely not creepy at all.
For inspiration, here’s mine:
There’s a little set of cards with inspirational quotes and phrases that came with a set of gemstones I bought to decorate the new apartment with. One of them says “Imagine your ideal self — then start showing up as her.” I put that card in my living room where I’ll see it every day, because it’s true.
You are what you do every day. If you keep eating like garbage and laying around playing Sims all day, that’s who you become. That’s what I was turning into, and my dreams of becoming a music therapist and getting back into shape and eventually buying a house and starting a family seemed so out-of-reach. But I had an epiphany. I wasn’t going to magically become The Best Jess if I kept living the way I was living, and honestly, what a wasted life that would have been!
It’s a hard truth, but you have to choose to suck less, and you have to keep choosing to suck less every day. Soon, you’ll wonder why you were ever living like a zombie to begin with. I picked up my computer to play with my virtual dollhouse last night and put it down after five minutes. It just didn’t seem worth it to me. I had so much more I wanted to do!
Get all the support you need. Get your friends and family on board, especially those you live with. Make that “why” board and show them, perhaps. Explain why everything on it is important to you, and come up with a plan to accomplish those things. Maybe you’re like me and just need to study and save money, and while it seems impossible now, with the right supports, you’ll get there. Take your meds. See a therapist if you can. Do whatever it takes to crawl out of the hole. But the best place to start is by determining your “whys” and letting them stare you in the face every single day.
ADHD stands for “attention deficit hyperactivity disorder,” so it goes without saying that lack of attention span and general moving-around-a-lot-ness are the classic symptoms. But there’s a third symptom that doesn’t get a lot of spotlight — impulsivity.
The cause of many a spontaneous midnight Meijer’s excursion.
My impulsivity has probably been the most detrimental part of having ADHD. It’s led to a lot of addictions, like sex and alcohol, which I’ve not been shy about on this blog, especially since I’ve largely overcome these addictions. But one vice continues to plague me. Compared to the others, it seems relatively benign, but that might just be what makes it so insidious.
Yup, I’m a shopaholic. And unlike sex and alcohol, there’s no 12-step program.
Unless those 12 steps are in the direction of a mall.
We recently moved to the opposite end of the Metro Detroit area, a solid 45-minute drive from our old place, and more than an hour if you count the fact that I was driving a moving truck bigger than Arkansas through a thunderstorm to get there. The drive was rough, but the packing was even worse. Despite having the help of several amazing friends, getting all twenty-something bags of clothes into the truck was annoying and draining, and making them fit was another challenge. Even with our huge-ass truck, we had to play Tetris to get everything inside.
I wish I was exaggerating all of this, but my shopping addiction had gotten so out-of-control, it was starting to affect my life. These dresses and sweatshirts and accessories had brought me so much joy when I first held them in my hands, yet now they were little more than a nuisance. I spread them out on the floor of the new bedroom after tearing through the garbage bags they’d travelled in. Did I mention these particular bags were the biggest garbage bags the store had?! Like, designed for yard waste, not clothes hoards.
I started thinking of the financial impact of all these purchases as well. There, lying on the ground, was several thousand dollars worth of terrible life choices, if not significantly more. I’ll get to “dealing with money woes with ADHD” in a future entry in this blog series, but right now, Mt. WhythehelldidIbuythis is occupying half my bedroom and my poor wife is having to take up rock climbing just get to her own side of the bed.
“Damn it, Jess.”
So, let’s start by acquiring some hangers. This step can be as expensive or cheap as you’d like, but considering we’re putting the clothes we truly love and treasure on them, I’d recommend getting some hangers you at least like. Imagine you’re Andy and your favorite clothes are sentient beings. What would you rather rest on — some uncomfy wire hanger or a nice, plush velvet hanger? Just keep in mind however many hangers you get, that’s how many clothing items you get to keep.
You see, my entire perspective changed when I started viewing the apartment as a container for possessions, and by extension, a closet and dresser function as a container for clothes. Whatever doesn’t fit in the container has to go. Think of your closet as Noah’s Ark, and we’re about to flood the bedroom with the wrath of God and/or Marie Kondo.
Thou shalt spark joy (or else).
So begin with the essentials. If you have a uniform, start by putting those aside. I’m a pharmacy technician, so I like to have several pairs of scrubs in various colors so I don’t look like a cartoon person wearing the same thing every day. Then, identify a brand or clothing style you really like and wear a lot of. I have a ton of dresses from the faux-vintage brand Belle Poque that I love, so I’m sparing all of them. They spark joy, and I wear them frequently. They’re safe from the flood.
Now, the fun begins. Start putting everything into piles by type: sweatshirts, t-shirts, jeans, leggings, scarves, etc. Choose a system that makes sense for you. If you’re really into dresses and skirts like me, perhaps sort them into maxi length and shorter length. Then, once everything is in its place, choose a predetermined number of pieces from each pile to save. Noah let two of every kind of animal on the ark, but I like three as a rule of thumb. That allows for a little more variety. If you have more or less closet/dresser space, you can adjust this number accordingly. If your space is very limited, maybe choose one or two articles of clothing, and if you’ve got a lot of space, you can do four or five garments each. But three seems to be the “golden” number. Take your chosen clothing, put them away neatly, and congratulate them for making the cut.
But now, you probably still have a huge pile of crap to get rid of. Here’s a hard truth: you’re not going to take this shit to Goodwill. You have ADHD. All your donation bags will languish in the corner until you have to move again, and the cycle will repeat. Even if you do manage to get to Goodwill, there’s a decent chance they won’t take it. Donation centers are overrun with contributions from people who are also in the process of decluttering their junk. But this doesn’t mean all your leftover clothing is doomed to the dumpster.
The first line of defense against the landfill is your friends. Hit up some folks who have a similar style as you and lure them over with the promise of free stuff and maybe some pizza or something. Then, let them go wild. If you have any trans friends, this is a great opportunity to help them out in particular! Early on in the transition journey, a lot of people are trying to figure out their style and sizing. I managed to offload a lot of cute clothing that no longer served me when my long-distance girlfriend, who is trans, came to visit one weekend. Seeing her face light up as she methodically tried on all my old dresses made my heart happy, and I was glad to give some of the cute pieces that no longer fit me or my lifestyle a second life with someone who would really appreciate them.
Then, see what you can repurpose into something else. If you’re not very crafty, you can skip this step, or perhaps find someone who can repurpose your stuff for art projects and other things. I’m considering saving some of my old band tees to turn into a quilt or tapestry. This is a good way to salvage some of your sentimental pieces.
Now, take what’s left after letting your friends pick through your clothing. Is there a local church or organization looking for donations? Think creatively. Lots of places you wouldn’t even consider may be looking for clothes to help the community. There’s even a kinky art collective in my area that takes donations!
If you’re at a loss, there may be some donation bins in the area. Do a quick Google search to find some places to take your leftover clothing. Some are donation, some are recycling. Take the stuff that’s still usable to a donation box and leave it there, and the more beat-up clothing can go to a recycling box. It’s important to do this step as soon as freaking possible. Do not let your bags of clothing refuse sit in the closet. Put it in the way of your front door so you HAVE to take care of it in order to go anywhere. Unless your house is literally on fire, don’t move the bags unless you’re taking them to the bin.
What happens if you can’t find any place to leave your old clothes? This is the hard part — you might have to throw some stuff away. It feels wasteful, and I’m not going to lie and say it’s great for the environment, but sometimes, sending things to the landfill is the only option you have. In ye olden days, people would bury the things that no longer served them. In fact, in many witchy traditions, old spell ingredients were buried in order to let them return to the Earth from which they came. Make this goodbye a sacred moment. Thank your clothes for coming to you and being in your life, even for a moment, and wish them well on their journey to becoming dust once again.
Once everything is in its proper place, take the time to celebrate. ADHD is hard to manage sometimes and it’s not easy to break the detrimental habits that come with it. I happen to have the triple-whammy of ADHD, autism, and OCD, the last of which being a hallmark sign of hoarding tendencies. But you, dear reader, are stronger than you know, and if my dumb ass can do this, so can you. There’s no feeling like opening the closet to find nothing but things that bring you joy, instead of feeling bogged down by stuff you barely even care about. Once you learn to let go, you’ll discover what it means to truly appreciate what you have.
It’s been almost two years since my life-changing diagnosis of ADHD. Suddenly, all of the issues that had plagued me my entire life made a whole lot of sense. I wasn’t stupid — I was neurodivergent, and in learning the true nature of my big dumb brain, I learned to embrace the parts of my neurological difference that made me, well, me. As much as I hated how my brain worked at times, I came to see my ADHD as a sort of blessing/curse, the same way Mei from Turning Red learned to love the red panda she turned into whenever she experienced emotions.
ADHD doesn’t come with a fursona, sadly.
Today, I found out one of my favorite professors had been diagnosed with ADHD over the summer, and just like that, my entire perspective of her changed — she was me! And as someone who aspires to be a professor of music therapy someday, seeing someone in that position who has what I have and is successful was really reassuring. It was like someone patted me on the shoulder and said “Hey Jess, this can be you someday.” And it felt really frickin’ cool, yo.
And it hit me — I’m that to someone. Somewhere out there, some aspiring musician or writer or college student is trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with them, why they can’t sit down and practice or write or study or do much of anything without getting sidetracked. Maybe they think they’re just stupid, too. And it’s my turn to show them that they, too, can be successful with ADHD. I believe everything happens for a reason, and perhaps my “curse” is intended to be used as a blessing for others, just like how Mei’s ancestors used the red panda to protect their loved ones.
I won’t lie and pretend I have it all together. I’m still working on getting my shit together. I think most people are, if we’re honest with ourselves. No one has it 100 percent figured out at any given time. All I know is I have nearly three decades of life experience with this brain of mine, so I’ve learned some tricks on how to utilize it. Here is part one of my “owner’s manual” for ADHD.
#1: You have ADHD
Duh.
You have ADHD. You. Have. ADHD. That’s not going to change. Your brain is wired differently from most of the world, and nothing can change the way it works. Barring a lobotomy or something, but that will cause more problems than it solves, ya know? There’s a reason we don’t do those anymore.
They say the first step of recovery is acceptance. The fifth step in grief is also acceptance, so get all your feelies out. Journal about it. Bring it up in therapy. Punch something that can be punched (not a person or other sentient creature, preferably). But as soon as you come to terms with the fact that you have ADHD, you can start working toward really living with it.
There is no cure for ADHD. There are treatments to make it more manageable, sure, but there are no cures. Yoga will not cure ADHD. Walking outside will not cure ADHD. Essential oils will not cure ADHD. Heck, Adderall doesn’t even cure ADHD, and it’s literally an ADHD medication. Full disclosure: I use all of the things I listed to help me concentrate and ground myself, but guess what? I still have ADHD, and everything that comes with it.
That’s not a bad thing though!
You see, in music therapy school, and presumably training for all other types of therapy, there’s a push for “person first language” and saying someone has a condition, rather than is it. It’s a way of separating the person from the condition. But I don’t like that for my ADHD. It’s a disability, sure, but it’s also a huge part of my personality and being. It’s like how the autistic community is reclaiming “autistic,” declaring “I am autistic,” rather than saying “I have autism.” In that same vein, I am ADHD. ADHD is a inseparable from me. For better or worse, it’s a piece of me, and nothing will change that.
JESSA JOYCE 