ADHD: An Owners Manual (Part Two: How to NOT Be a Clothes Hoarder)

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.

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.

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.

All the Best Beginnings Have an End

People make such a big deal out of “firsts.” A baby’s first word, a kid’s first day of school, a teenager’s first kiss. All throughout life, we’re experiencing “firsts,” some bigger than others. Today was my first time listening to Rina Sawayama’s new album, and no, this is not the first time I’ve mentioned her in this blog. It’s also not going to be the last.

No I’m not obsessed why would you say that?

But the song that’s on my mind as I write this particular post isn’t by Rina Sawayama. It’s not even by an artist that’s Rina Sawayama-adjacent. It’s not even by the usual suspects (Bon Jovi, natch). It’s a country song by singer-songwriter (and surprisingly badass guitarist) Brad Paisley.

Although I literally would not be able to tell him apart in a line-up of other country stars.

The lyrics talk about how someday, we’ll do something mundane, like have biscuits and gravy at your mom’s house or hear “Purple Rain,” and you’ll have no idea that it’s the last time that thing will happen for you. Maybe the next day, your mom dies, or you die, or the ghost of Prince magically sets fire to every extent copy of his music. But whatever it is, it’ll never happen again, and you just don’t know when that last time will be.

I remember my first time going to Ypsilanti. It felt magical, like this bohemian wonderland full of artists and academics and people with weird colors in their hair who hang out at coffeeshops. I’d spent practically my entire life up until then in the Downriver area, where I didn’t really fit in at all. When I came to Ypsi, I felt like I finally belonged somewhere. And for most of my teens and 20s, that’s where I lived and experienced many, many important firsts.

Last night, I came to the chilling realization that it was the second to last time I’d sleep in Ypsilanti. It was most likely the last time drift off to the sound of the rain hitting Ford Lake at night. And although I’d been excited to move to the Royal Oak area and start anew, it hit me that I was going to have to say goodbye to my little lakeside apartment, the city I’d grown to love, and in a lot of ways, my youth.

You see, Ypsilanti came to symbolize a particular stage of life for me. It saw me grow from an shy, meek girl to a confident woman. It represented my carefree college days, a time when I was able to run wild, when I felt I had the world at my feet. But I began to realize how it also represented some less-than-pleasant things — the advent of my addictions, the worsening of my mental health issues, and more heartbreaks (romantic and otherwise) than I can count. I realized with the growing pains came a certain amount of new freedom and opportunity. As I leave Ypsi, I’m leaving the baggage of my younger days behind.

That’s the part they don’t tell you about growing up. At least in Western culture, getting older is something you don’t want to happen. Youth is something to be cherished and celebrated and held onto for as long as humanly possible. But there’s something freeing about coming to terms with change and the passing of time. As we grow older, we become wiser, and even when doors close, new ones open.

This is hopefully the last time we move into a new apartment. The next move we make, it’s going to be a house. Our house. And we’ll have our big fancy-schmancy wedding that we never actually got to have because we married hastily for insurance purposes. And then, we’ll look into having kids. We’ll start a family of our own.

With the changing of the season, I’m reminded how letting go of the past is necessary, beautiful even. If trees held onto their leaves forever, we’d never have the wonders of autumn.

I may never be 21 again, but that’s okay. There will still be beauty in the next stage of life, wherever it takes me.

ADHD: An Owner’s Manual (Part One)

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

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.

(To be continued…)

Live Hard Day Two: Becoming Steak

When I was in junior high, I briefly had the nickname Bubbles, before my classmates latched onto “Salisbury Steak” and later, simply “Steak.” If you knew me at all in high school, you’d know why a meat-inspired moniker was hilariously weird for a girl like me. I wasn’t particularly muscly or threatening or beefy. I was the Ute and wholesome little blonde-haired church girl who would probably cry if someone said something remotely mean to her. I would have considered myself more of a marshmallow than a steak.

But I digress. The point is, for a very brief time, I was nicknamed Bubbles, after the Powerpuff Girl, natch.

You could have put this picture in the yearbook under my name and no one would have questioned it.

In a lot of ways, I was Bubbles. I was always the adorable, innocent, naive one. I liked cute things and candy and stuffed animals. I had the blonde-hair blue-eyed ingenue look. I could talk to animals (although they seldom talked back to me). And when flanked by my two wildly badass siblings, I looked like an absolute creampuff.

A lot has changed since then. I’ve been through a lot. I’m not innocent by any measure. My style has shifted through the years, but I’m certainly not the tiny blonde Precious Moments figurine I used to be.

Unless that Precious Moments figurine had a late-20s big titty goth gf phase.

Still, I find myself feeling like Bubbles quite often. Even though I’ve been hardened by age, I’m still quite sensitive and wishy-washy and admittedly kind of a crybaby. Perhaps it’s the Pisces in me. Perhaps it’s the fact that I’m the youngest. All I know is I don’t want to be that way anymore. I know I have badass potential. Enter my Bubblevicious moment. If you don’t remember that particular episode, let this jog your memory:

Sometimes you need to decide to be badass, and that’s where I am. I know what I’m doing isn’t working for me. I don’t have the mental or physical strength I want to have.

Enter the Live Hard challenge.

I’ve said in my previous post that I’m not a huge fan of Andy Frisella for reasons that should be pretty obvious, but I’m also not a huge fan of throwing the baby out with the bath water. And frankly, his Live Hard program is legit. I’m on my second day of following the 75 Hard ruleset, and I already fee significantly better. Because I am ADHD as all hell and need to keep myself accountable somehow, I decided to post my updates on here. Here are my observations so far:

1. Stick to a diet.

This is probably the hardest one for me, because the diet I chose is intermittent fasting, and I work weird hours. I decided on noon to 8 p.m. for my eating window, and I’m just going to pray every night that my coworkers didn’t bring in a pizza to share. So far though, I’m doing alright. I got a little antsy toward the end of my fast earlier today, but nothing I couldn’t handle. Plus, my Adderall makes me crave food less. I’m allowing unsweetened coffee and tea during my fasting hours as well, so that’s helping a bit, although I didn’t realize consuming caffeine on an empty stomach wreaks this much havoc on your digestive system.

As in, this entire post so far has been written on the toilet.

2. No alcohol.

This is probably the easiest one because I quit drinking a few months back. In fact, I’m officially almost four months sober. Small victories, y’all.

3. Two 45 minute workouts a day, one being outside.

This has been probably deceptively easy so far, and I’m no doubt going to eat my words in a few days when DOMS sets in.

Not the kind of doms I’m referring to, but you could argue that it, too, hurts so good.

I’m already starting to feel some of the delayed soreness in my arms, so I’m trying to keep my vision of Badass Jess in my head. This pain will eventually become muscle, and then I too can become an intimidating dominatrix— I mean, a completely wholesome but buff woman that definitely does not engage in BDSM.

Except my Bible Study/Discussion Meetings.

My workouts so far have been a half hour of biking following by fifteen minutes of weight training for the indoor portion, and a 45 minute walk around the neighborhood for the outdoor portion. My wife has been very much on board with taking daily walks, and our talks during these lengthy walks have been doing wonders for both of our mental health issues and our relationship as a whole. I’ll probably want to up the ante in a while to something a bit more strenuous, like biking or jogging, but I’m kind of loving these little walks with my girl.

4. Read 10 pages of nonfiction/self-help/something that will make you suck less as a person.

Ah, yes, my favorite part of the challenge, and a big reason I decided to take it on. I love this idea, and I went above and beyond assembling a set of books to navigate through in the next few months. I’m starting by alternating between two titles that are relevant to my struggles with ADHD — Decluttering at the Speed of Life by Dana K. White, and You Need a Budget by Jesse Mecham. So far, I’ve been killing this part of the challenge, reading more than required daily just because I’m hooked. Honestly, I forgot how much I love reading, especially nonfiction books, and these particular titles are helping quite a bit already. I’ll probably review them on here once I’m finished with them. Next up on my list is How to Win Friends and Influence People in the Digital Age by Dale Carnegie and The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron, although I admit I cheated a bit and parsed through parts of them already. I guess it’s better to read too much than not enough.

5. Drink a gallon of water.

I lied. This is probably the easiest part of the challenge for me, and strangely enough, it seems to be the hardest for everyone else. I don’t know why I just drink so much water naturally. Was I a camel in a past life? Who knows.

6. Take a progress pic daily.

I’ve taken my pictures, and I’m not gonna lie, I always remember to do this when I’m about to jump in the bath and have already disrobed. So my first two days are a bit NSFW. I’ve already exceeded my spicy limit for this post, so I won’t be sharing them here. That’s for my OnlyFans.

I’ll take a clothed progress pic tomorrow probably and share it here eventually. But the official first and second day pics are for my eyes only. Gotta leave something to the imagination, ya know?

So that’s a quick rundown of how things are going. I’ll continue updating everyone on my progress, if only to keep myself accountable. But honestly, I’m excited to become less of a Bubbles and more of a Steak, and I think I’m off to a good start on my journey to beefy goodness.

Hold the Girl (Or, How I’m Going to Make Teenage Me Proud)

Sometimes I wonder if wide-eyed 17-year-old me would be happy with the direction my life has taken. After all, at that point, I was in the best shape of my life, earning straight A’s, serving as colorguard captain AND class president, and full of ambition to become the best version of myself. In fact, I remember how I was so determined to become the best performer in my dance class, I’d practice for an hour in front of the mirror every night. I had so much motivation, so much drive. I had every intention of bursting through those high school doors and jumping into a life as a music therapist, professor, creator, and business owner.

Without going into too much of a “woe is me” spiel, things haven’t exactly turned out the way I wanted. After changing my major, dropping out of college twice due to then-undiagnosed ADHD, and letting my mental and physical health slip farther than ever, I feel like teenage me would cry if she met present me.

Something needs to change.

Rina Sawayama’s “Hold the Girl” is a love letter to her younger self, and I remember the first time I heard the lyrics. REALLY heard them. I felt little Jess looking back at me sadly as Rina sang the lines “Sometimes I get down with guilt/For the promises I’ve broken to my younger self.” I’ve let myself fall so far from where I was.

That’s why I’m taking action. I’m not letting myself sink any further. I want little Jess to be proud of me. I want her to be excited to grow into this woman I’ve become. So I’m deciding to be better.

Here’s my plan, inspired by Andy Frisella’s 75 Hard challenge. Despite him kind of being a dumbass (like, Trumper and antivax-level dumbassery), his challenge has a lot of substance. Follow a diet (I’m choosing intermittent fasting), two 45 minute workouts a day, no alcohol, one gallon of water a day, and read ten pages of nonfiction or self-improvement literature daily. I need a holistic plan of action like this one to get me out of this rut I’m in, and I’m sharing this plan and my progress on my blog to keep me accountable.

In short, I’m not going to sit back and be content to suck anymore. She wouldn’t want me to.

Today, I choose to hold the girl.

Good News, Everyone: WE’RE REBRANDING!

You might have noticed the domain name and blog title have changed. Don’t worry, it’s still me! I wanted to rebrand this blog into something that gives hope, something that can serve you — yes, you! — as an anchor in the storm we call life. Here, you’ll find my personal observations on topics like spirituality and mental health, (eventually daily) devotionals, and things that have helped me through my sometimes turbulent journey.

My perspective is a Christian one, albeit a more progressive version than you’re likely used to. If you have an established faith, or don’t really believe in anything, don’t fret! I’m not here to convert anyone. Instead, I want to be a voice for those who may have been burned by the traditional Church, people who are neurodiverse, queer, or who maybe just don’t fit the “churchy” norm. I know what it’s like to feel excluded from my own faith tradition, but God never abandons His kids, and I’m still learning from Him every day. That’s why I want to share what I’ve learned with you all. Because if I can help just one person reading this feel less alone, everything I’ve been through will be worth it.

So here’s to setting sail on this new adventure. And you are absolutely welcome along for the ride.

How Sad, How Lovely (Or, The Tragic Tale of Connie Converse)

It’s not uncommon for me to feel a kinship to a person I’ve never met — and never will meet. From Freddie Mercury to Zelda Fitzgerald to a number of murder victims from the scores of true crime podcasts I binge, I have a tendency to see myself in various figures. I think everyone does this to an extent. Whether it’s a fictional character or a real human who walked this earth, we all want to find someone to relate to in the things we consume.

I was listening to a podcast on unsolved mysteries when I learned her name. Elizabeth “Connie” Converse, a fledgling but pioneering singer-songwriter who gave up and ran away to places unknown, never to be heard from again.

The listening experience was eerie as hell, as the narrators rattled off various facts about her life. She worked as a writer and editor. She was also into visual art in addition to music and writing. She lived in Ann Arbor and likely walked the same streets I do today. And like me, she was plagued with depression, or as she worded it, a “blue funk.”

Connie, born in 1924, would throw herself into the local music scene in the 1950s, playing living room shows and doing home recordings with artist and animator Gene Deitch of Tom & Jerry fame. Her songs are often described as ahead of their time — think a proto-Joni Mitchell. She wrote about subversive themes for the time, things like sexuality and racism. In fact, many consider her the earliest example of the singer-songwriter genre in the US. So why has no one heard of her? Simply put, she never managed to make an impact on wider audiences. Disheartened, she gave up on music and eventually would pack her bags and disappear forever, not even telling her own family her whereabouts. Her fate remains unknown.

But her music survived. In an interview, Gene Deitch shared some of the music he’d recorded in his younger days, including Connie’s music. This sparked a renewed interest in the forgotten artist, and in 2009, an album of her music was released to the public. She finally gained the recognition she’d always wanted. And yet, no one knows if she was even alive to see her half-century-old project see the attention it deserved.

Considering she’d be closing in on 100 years old now, the chances she’s still alive somewhere is incredibly slim. But I wish she was. I wish I could meet with her in some quiet cafe and just talk about music, art, life, anything. I know we’d be kindred spirits. I’d tell her my own frustrations about trying to make it in music, about my struggles with mental illness, how I’ve fantasized about simply disappearing sometimes.

But I can’t have those conversations, so I’ll settle for continuing her legacy. I’ll take her life and learn from it, glean inspiration from it. I’ll be the best songwriter I can be. I’ll be the best writer I can be. I’ll live a life that would make her proud and kick depression’s ass.

Do it for Connie.

Like life, like a smile
Like the fall of a leaf
How sad, how lovely
How brief

The Pen is Mightier

When I threw in the towel on writing after several failed attempts at breaking into the languishing journalism industry, my mom was the one who inspired me to start blogging instead.

“The world needs your voice,” she said. “The pen is mightier than the sword.”

And then I reminded her of this bit, and then we both laughed because we have such highbrow taste in comedy.

But me? Why me? I have nothing to offer. Who wants to read the ramblings of some twentysomething millennial with too much time on her hands and no real expertise on anything except Bon Jovi and Pokemon? It’s not like I’m a political pundit or theologian. I can’t start a compelling mommy blog with all zero of my children, traveling to fascinating places is well outside my means, and I don’t have a brand to promote. All I have is myself and my admittedly mundane life experiences.

But maybe that’s enough. When I posted my most recent blog post, I was blown away by the response it garnered. In a day, it became my most viewed post by far. And my messages exploded with responses. People saying I inspired them, that they didn’t feel alone anymore in their own battle.

You see, when I began writing, back when I was in second grade, it happened out of another, albeit less traumatic, trauma. As a weird-ass kid who almost definitely had some kind of autism spectrum disorder, I was bullied pretty relentlessly as a child, and I needed an escape. That escape was storytelling. My mind overflowed with these silly stories I’d make up, and the characters in these stories became imaginary friends to me in a way. Whenever something shitty happened to me, I’d write it into the story, and by having one of my characters experience it too, I felt less alone. Writing became something therapeutic and almost sacred to me. I wrote relentlessly during class throughout elementary school, and when my family got its first home computer in eighth grade, I eschewed chat rooms and games for the word processor. Whenever I had a bad day, I’d just throw myself into my writing, and everything around me would be just a little better.

I think that’s why I still write, even after all these years, and I think that’s why I share my writing here, even when it’s difficult. Because if I can help just one person feel less alone in their struggles, everything I’ve ever gone through — every mental illness, every bad experience, every ranch dressing packet hurled at child-me — will have been worth it.

So You Want a Lobotomy

Amazon.com: Browne 7-1/2" Ice Pick: Industrial & Scientific

I used to wonder why somebody would consent to something as barbaric as a lobotomy. The older I get, though, the more I understand why someone would want to stab an ice pick through their brain.

There are days I wish I could do it to myself, perhaps with the nearest writing implement. Anything to numb my brain for just a moment. As you’ve seen in my previous posts, I can’t do much weed without literally going crazy, and alcohol tends to become a problem if I use it too often. And what would numbing myself to my own thoughts do? You can only get so high before the inevitable fall. And even if I lived an entirely straight-edge lifestyle from here on out, which is a real possibility considering every legal substance short of caffeine has been problematic for me, and had all my symptoms under control via my psych meds, there’s always that worry that the intrusive thoughts and anxieties are going to come back, probably worse than ever. That’s how it’s always been. Out of one storm, directly into another.

I’ve been getting back in touch with my faith, though several roadblocks have tried to stop me. One of the biggest has been my mental health. It’s hard to imagine a loving Father letting his child go through this when He has the power to stop it. I’d readily stab myself in the brain with a pencil if it meant my future children didn’t have to grow up with depression and OCD like I did. Maybe life is like a game of the Sims, and just like I give my Sims unfavorable traits to spice things up sometimes, God’s like, “hmm, let me sprinkle a little bit of mental illness into this one and see what happens.”

What Is Simulation Theory? Do We Live in a Simulation? | Built In — (And then I get paranoid that all of existence is a simulation and then it’s back to being hella frustrated I can’t have a freaking brain that doesn’t suck.)

But a part of me is convinced that my mental illnesses aren’t just a design flaw or an accident of evolution or even the work of a capricious deity. Perhaps there is a deeper purpose behind it all. When I was younger, I had no frame of reference for what OCD or depression even was, aside from the cartoonish portrayals in the media. I knew something was wrong with me, but no one talked about mental health. It was this taboo subject. Maybe, just maybe, I was given my particular brain, as well as the capability to write, because the world needs more voices from mentally ill folks. Thankfully, mental health is well on its way to becoming a normal and acceptable topic, but it’s still hard to be young (or even older) and feel like you’re alone in this fight.

I love the New Living Translation of Psalm 139:14 — “Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex! Your workmanship is marvelous—how well I know it.” We are complex, and no place is that more evident than in our brains. We’re human and flawed, so like the rest of our bodies, it’ll malfunction from time to time, but that doesn’t stop it from being beautiful. Like the rest of God’s creation, we need to care for that brain and our bodies. You have only one — treat it like the treasure it is. And if you’re struggling with mental health, rest easy knowing you’re in good company.

That Feeling When You Die in Another Dimension

I guess when you have a mental illness, you need to stay on your toes.

I have OCD, which I assure you is not cute or quirky. There have been times it nearly drove me to suicide. Not exactly something you’d see on Monk or in one of those “These pictures of disorganized garbage will drive you insane” posts your grandma sends you on Facebook. I have a particularly hellish but not uncommon form of OCD where you hyperfocus on the fact that you can, in fact, hurt someone else and/or yourself at any time. You know in your heart you never would, that you’d sooner yeet yourself into a meat grinder before actually harming anyone, but the fact that you have the power to or that it even crossed your mind in the first place makes you feel like absolute shit.

I had it under control for almost a year, no panic episodes or anything. HAD.

Because I Got High - Wikipedia — Ah yes, the theme song of this blog post.

It was probably triggered by the weed, to be honest. I decided to unwind with a little, not thinking it would have any significant impact on me. If it’s legal now, it should be fine, right? I’m in a safe place, my OCD and other mental health issues have been tamed, and overdosing isn’t really a problem with weed. I thought for sure I’d be okay.

Wrong. Absolutely wrong. It started when I had a thought pop into my head, as thoughts tend to do, but this one was about a story I’d read in my psychology textbook years ago. This ordinary, straight-laced guy had a brain tumor that essentially turned him into a pedophile. What if that happened to me? Or what if I got some kind of brain injury that made me a murderer? What if I killed someone? What if the weed damages my brain to the point where that actually happens? What if I’m killing my fiancée right now? What if my fiancée was killing me instead? Why is my throat so tight? Am I being choked? Was my throat slit? If I fall asleep, will I die? Am I already dead? Did I die in another continuity?

Sayonara Earth 616! The Marvel Universe Is Gone! — Earth-616 Jess is dead. RIP.

Of course none of this actually happened, but the delusions felt so real to me. It’s a wonder I didn’t end up in the psych ward.

I finally came to, with a new realization that my OCD wasn’t tamed but simply dormant, and the thought that a substance, even one as innocuous as weed, can reignite the flames of mental illness is horrifying. This isn’t a ‘90s DARE “drugs are bad, mmmkay?” type thing — I know it legitimately does help some people, and that’s rad. But if you’re living with a mental health issue or take any kind of psychiatric medication, you have to be incredibly careful and accept the fact that weed (or alcohol or anything) might not be for you. You’re not missing out by living sober when your own sanity is at stake. As for me, I no longer wish to indulge in anything that can fuck with my brain. I refuse to let anything have that much power over me again.