"Even despite our estrangement I've got a small query for you: What Comes Next?"--What Comes Next, Jonathon Groff, Hamilton

So.


Yeah, things are really rough and difficult right now. Meds are hard to manage and remember why it's so important to take them, when they don't feel like they're helping manage or balance my emotions. But at the same time... You know I had a really terrible day yesterday. Really terrible. But last night, I saw something a friend posted on their blog asking, 'someone write this', and.

I did?

I just sat down and wrote a short story for her, for this friend I've never met but who has been there for me during some of the worst moment of my life. The first author I ever properly collaborated with on anything, let alone the hundred small projects we've debated and considered and brainstormed. Most of those will never come to fruition, but for once writing isn't the point, thinking together is.  I had an authoress friend once before, also online, and somehow she vanished a little after a year talking to one another. I still don't know if she had some kind of problem with me or if something bad happened. I really, genuinely hope she's okay.

I thought this newer friendship would end the same way. We stopped talking, we had some distance. But eventually, every so often, we'd talk again. Brief little discussions or jokes. Sometimes that's enough to keep a relationship going. It's enough to be able to say, yes, I still know you and we still get along. We've been talking much more regularly since last week, when she contacted me out of the blue to ask if I'd been watching a new show on Netflix. I hadn't, but I did that day, and it was funny, cute, and clever. Not a lot of internal coherency, but that's alright. There's foreshadowing and theories and a new season coming out at the end of the year. We're both looking forward to it.

Last night, while in the middle of a bad fit of depression, I saw that she wanted someone to write something funny, so I did. I finished up and notified her, then posted it online. I haven't posted a story in more than a year, but for her I did. And she loved it! I was so glad.

Bad things are everywhere, and Bad Thoughts haunt us. But there's an astounding amount of pleasure and joy to be found in giving someone else a little of your time, a little of your energy, a little of your thought. It's very, very rewarding.

I have a lot to do today, and i the next few days I hope I can hold onto this feeling.

Ja na!

Denial is not just a river in Egypt.

Hi guys.

Here's something I've been stewing over lately. When you've been in therapy for as long as I have, and especially when you've studied Psych./Soc. like I did in school, you develop certain... talents. Skills if you will. Such developments are very helpful, both in therapy and in life. When something goes wrong, or you catch yourself behaving in a way that is resultant of whatever you're receiving treatment for, you can apply the mechanisms you've learned. They can be incredibly helpful, but like everything else in this world there are pros and cons. Once you've mastered (so to speak) the art of self-examination, you start looking at other people the same way. You start applying what you've learned to them. And that doesn't always turn out well.

The ability I'm referring to today is that of psychoanalysis.

Dictionary.reference.com defines psychoanalysis as follows:
noun
1) a systematic structure of theories concerning the relations of conscious and unconscious psychological processes
2) a technical procedure for investigating unconscious mental processes and for treating psychoneuroses

Today, let's talk about the latter definition.

Having psychoanalysis in your supply closet of coping methods is invaluable (unless you are one of those individuals who take it too far *cough* BBC Sherlock Holmes *cough*). It allows you to ponder things out for yourself, to pick apart your motives, desires, and actions. Once you've done that, it's easier to focus on each aspect. That's where the professional help comes in. Understanding not why you do something but what drives you--or stops you as the case may be. What blocks you from getting what you want?

In theory it's a fairly straightforward process. Ask questions; get answers. The questions my therapists usually ask me, and I have now begun to ask myself, are paraphrased below.

What do you want?
What actions can you take to achieve that goal?
What steps have you taken?
What stopped you from taking those steps?
What are the excuses your subconscious provides?
What are you afraid of?/What about this makes you anxious?

What are the reasons behind your reluctance to act?

What is the origin of that reason?

What can you do to manage those fears and anxieties?

Well, essentially those questions. I think I got the spirit of it, anyway. Fact of the matter is that these aren't just questions; these are The Hard Questions. At the source of every decision or non-decision you make or don't make (choosing not to decide is still choosing, by the way) is a reason. A fear, anxiety, a traumatic incident, whatever. It is one of your vulnerabilities.You may not be able to recognize it.

More importantly, chances are you don't want to.

Your mind and heart and sometimes body will fight and fight and fight to keep that Reason hidden. Safe and untouched at the back of your mind or deep in yourself where it won't hurt as bad, and you can live without acknowledging it. You will rebel against the invasive, cruel, rude and unnecessary interrogation you or your therapist is putting you through.

You will get angry.
You will be afraid.
And it will hurt.

There are as many reasons, many of which are instinctive emotional reactions, to bury your vulnerability. Sometimes you hide these parts of you because you're ashamed. Sometimes it is because you have been hurt before. Sometimes it is even because you have examined it before and know it's irrational--but you feel it is truth regardless.

(Shit like this is why we need therapy.)

I can't very well expect you to examine yourself so uncomfortably closely without doing so myself. In the spirit of fairness and the immortal words of everyone everywhere:

I'll show you mine if you show me yours.

I genuinely believe I am replaceable. To expand on that a little: I believe myself to be a burden, and feel very deeply that "I am not the child my parents would have wanted". Why do I think that? Simple: I was conditioned to, through many unhealthy friendships, believe absolutely in my lack of self-worth. I am worth nothing without them by my side, I am unwanted, I am substandard, I am a bad person. Those thoughts wormed their way into my mind around the same time I started to really grasp the concept of "money" and understanding that my medications and therapy sessions were draining my family's funds. I was causing trouble, I was making life difficult for them. I still am: I am unemployed, I do not drive, I drain the family coffers with my wants and wishes and medicines. To this day I have problems--big problems--with feelings of inadequacy and worthlessness. I wrestle everyday with the concept that I am loved [And here I am stumped. I don't know how to phrase the next part of the sentence. ...because of who I am? ...despite who I am? ...regardless of who I am? They all have drastically different meanings. I'm not in my family's heads; I can't figure out which words to use and be accurate.] Because of this:

I am afraid of being left behind and/or forgotten. That is it. That is the bottom line. This one is simple. I submit myself to abuse, I am desperate to leave an impression, I dress in an unusual fashion, I spend time memorizing jokes. I am grateful for every single instance in which someone I have not seen for some time recalls who I am, and yet due to the above, remain incapable of speaking to such people for fear of interfering in their life and causing them trouble. In school I was so desperate to be acknowledged I maintained abusive relationships, openly mocked not only myself but others in a frantic bid to impress my so-called friends. I devoted myself to them, some more than others. I loved them and gave them everything I could--nearly all of me. It wasn't enough. For almost three years I spent money, my family's money, to talk about my friends and get advice on how to help them (she wondered why my years of therapy didn't seem to make a difference). Even now, even this second, I am fighting the urge to give in, throw what little self-respect I've built up since graduating out the metaphorical window, and contact them. Just one of them. Just her. Just her.

I hold myself responsible for things out of my control/I give myself too much credit. In contrast to the above I tend to feel that I (potentially) have a large impact on those around me. You saw some of this in my last post, but let me give you an example: If my father and grandmother get into a fight, and he leaves angry to go on a drive, I consider it my duty to catch him before he leaves, give him a hug, and try and calm him as much as I can. So far he's always come back. No car crashes, no arrests, no anything awful that doesn't bear thinking about. But if I were to move out, and my father and grandmother get into a fight, and he leaves angry to go on a drive, and crashes and dies because he wasn't thinking clearly--that would be my fault. I would carry my father's death on by shoulders for the rest of my life, not simply because I would mourn and miss him, but because I was responsible for not being there. I selfishly left home and foolishly expected my family of adults to actually be rational, responsible people. I also consider myself responsible for losing friends. You see, I have been friends with and lost so many people who are so very different. The only common denominator in every one of those relationships--was me. Logically, I am at fault. Which leads quite nicely into my next admittance.

Something is wrong with me. No ifs, ands, or buts. Something is wrong with me. As a person, a friend, a daughter, a sister, niece, cousin, goddaughter, human being, something is wrong with me. And whatever it is, is irreparable.

(I go to therapy to deal with shit like this.)

So. Psychoanalysis, yes? For me that means prying myself apart, combing through the separated strands of my memories, feelings, impulses, and thoughts, and looking at them very, very hard until I start seeing how maybe this way on the left there has something to do with that down in the right corner.

It is an invaluable ability. It tides me over between sessions. It empowers me to take the lead in my own therapy appointments instead of following the guidance of the person giving counsel (thought sometimes that is most certainly needed). I can direct us to where I want to go, what I want to work on, what I think needs to be examined.

(Therapy means unweaving the messy tapestry of my life, one section at at a time, and painstakingly investigating the source of the errors and mistakes before putting it back together, better. More like I wanted it to be when I started. Thankfully, despite my metaphor, I still get to jump around. I don't have to do it in any particular order. As things come up, as I have my revelations and epiphanies and go through various life experiences, I tackle them. One step at a time.

It's sewing and realizing you fucked up a stitch a while back but not so far it's worth tying off the thread where you are. It's going back and looking at what you did, trying different ways to fix it, and finding something that works. Then you move forward.

It's trying to get a degree and having to go through prerequisite classes, only the classes are the therapy, and the degree is you finally in control of your life.)

But you can't do it alone, not really. I have had several experiences with bringing something up and having my therapists calling me out on that one, odd thing I said. Like a thread sticking out of the hem of your shirt. And she pulls at it insistently until I am clinging to my defenses/excuses/reasons by the skin of my teeth... and then once more. And out comes the truth. The hard truth. The painful, shameful, embarrassing, irrational truth. And then I can start thinking clearly.

At last my defenses are down. At last my blinders are off. At last I recognize that I am in a safe environment, working with someone who's primary concern is not to make my life easier, but to help me make my life better.

So yeah. At the start of this I mentioned the pros and cons.

Fact of the matter is, there are very few cons. Just one, really, that comes to mind...

I bring all this up because a fortnight or so ago I found myself idly, coldly, objectively dissecting the reasons my sister has not taken a certain action. I came to a perfectly reasonable, rather upsetting conclusion and wondered how she would react when I mentioned it to her.

Then I stopped and thought how much that would hurt her, and decided not to do so.

During the subsequent moment of clarity I made a choice... a new rule for myself: I will not psychoanalyze the people I care about. And if I do, without realizing?

I will not bring up my deductions in a fight. I will not back the people I love into a corner using things I've learned in confidence or realized on my own as weapons against family and friends. I know that pain. I know that fear. I know the helplessness and misery that comes with becoming the victim of people less conscientious than myself. I know what it feels like to be betrayed.

I also know what it feels like to be the assailant.

I've done that. And I spent years trying to make up for it. Years never being quite forgiven. It hurt. Hurts nearly as much as being on the receiving end of such an attack--and yes. They are attacks.

As someone who has been on both sides, I think I'm entitled to say that both suck and nobody ends up truly happy. One because they are haunted by another's words and deeds, the other because they will always wonder 'what if'.

I would say it happens on accident sometimes but I've never had that experience. Each time I hurt someone like that, using my intimate knowledge of their feelings and weaknesses and personal demons, I knew exactly what it would do. I planned what to say ahead of time. I steered the conversation down a path that would allow me to say, quite naturally, the thing I knew would hurt them most.

So. Psychoanalysis, yes? No?

Pros: better person, handle on your own emotions, understanding the reasons behind (in)actions, taking charge of your own life, making progress, learning more about yourself, able to better understand others

Cons: better able to hurt others' feelings, temptation to use knowledge against others, potential for social disaster when incorrect, potential path to misery

Basically? It would behoove you to remember a few things:
Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.
Karma is a bitch.
Think, then speak.
With great power comes great responsibility.
They are rubber and you are glue; whatever you say bounces off them and sticks to you.

And that's a wrap, folks. I know my personal views and experiences got us way off track. But honestly, it says at the top of the page I'm ADD, why did you expect me to stay focused?

...I think that's the closest I've come to writing an essay is about four years. Golly.

Ja na!

"Just ignore all these present tense"— It's Beginning to Get to Me, Snow Patrol

"Some people don't know what depression is like. Others do. I know some of both, but for some reason many are unable or unwilling to accept that having depression is not the same as being depressed. They are very different things: you are depressed when your boyfriend breaks up with you three days before Valentine's; you have depression when you spend days, months or even years at a time feeling like a waste of space. I am not embellishing anything. I'm not exaggerating to get the point across or emphasizing any one particular idea or stereotype. Okay?

When you have depression, it's not like being bipolar or moody, okay? It's not just being sad all the time. When you're sad, you are sad. When you are depressed, you are at the bottom of a ten-foot hole with no ladder, no rope, no helpers, and not enough [self-]control to stop digging. You can't stop digging. You can't. Every time you try the ground caves in just a bit more, so you get even deeper, farther, without ever having lifted a finger. You fall down into what amounts to an emotional pit of molasses. You can't really move all that well because you can't gather enough energy to try. You can't see your way out because some of it got in your eyes. You can't really call for help because you're choking—on everything; loneliness, pain, failed hopes, fallen dreams, and an unyielding, God-like fury that this, whatever 'this' is, is happening to you. You want to scream, "why do you keep doing this to me" at the top of your lungs, shout out to the heavens, "leave me alone" and whisper in the darkness where only you can hear, "help me, someone please help me".

But you can't. You can't, because there is an overriding knowledge that you are not worth it. You are useless. You are a genuine, certified, waste... of... space... so why would anyone help you? You don't even have the right to ask. Your advice and opinions are useless, your questions a waste of time, your shoulder unworthy of anyone's tears, and your tears unworthy of anyone's shoulder.

So why even bother?

Surely not because some part of you that knows these things aren't true is crying out in denial. Not because you can see the concern on the faces of those around you—if you have them. If you can find the strength to look.

While it's easy enough—or no, not easy, simple—it's simple enough to find a good day or thirty during a lingering, soul-deep depressive state that goodness, optimism, hope, or even joy is truly only skin deep. Maybe it permeates through to the bottom layer of skin. If so, you're lucky, and I envy you because for the rest of us, or at least for me, something happens every day to strip away one more inch of what, where, and who I wanted to be at this point in my life until the picture I held to so strongly is riddled with holes and rips and scorch marks to the point of being unrecognizable. Those single days of skin-deep happiness are slowly chipping away at the life I wanted to have, the life I dreamed of that got me through my senior year of high school. At this point, even my memory of the full and clear image is more than fuzzy around the edges.

Here is a brief report of my life since graduation in June:
I've done some things I wanted to do, but there are more, important things that I haven't done.
I've seen and spent time with people I never thought I'd see again, but the people I really want to see are completely out of my life.
I've done things I never thought I'd be able to do, but other, personal things that used to come naturally have become incredibly difficult.
I've met, and as such now know, more people than I expected to know, but the people I spent the last six years with are no longer accessible to me.
I've matured in ways I never expected, but my coping skills have regressed to what they were during Frosh year at the latest and/or six years old at the earliest.
I've proven myself capable of so much more than I ever dreamed, but I haven't done anything more than spend my days in a constant state of idle, depressed boredom.
I've decided that I deserve more than I was settling for in so many aspects of my life, but I'm expecting progressively less and less in others.
I've got so many good ideas, but I lack the self-discipline required to actually be productive
I've been working hard to be a better person, but I've started to hate myself again.

I don't know what to do."


I wrote this several weeks ago during, obviously, an utterly downer mood. But that doesn't mean that those feelings don't follow me around from day to day. They do. That's what true depression does. Sucks, doesn't it?

Yes, yes it does.

No matter how many good, or even amazing, things happen to me, there is still always something that can be taken away. You can lose things even more quickly than you gained them, and when that starts happening with frightening regularity, the scales tip because suddenly the list of things you've lost is much larger and heavier than the list of things you have, many if not most of which are of little consequence.

I'm not trying for sympathy, okay? I'm trying to explain just a bit of what it's like to be in my head when things are going wrong. When things start going bad, my head is a very, very unsafe place to be. Not because I'm going to be so overwhelmed that I kill myself—I won't—but because there are times when I desperately want to.

Really, I'm so lucky in that regard: many people just give up.There's nothing around them, nothing within sight or reach, that is important enough for them to fight themselves for. Many people, an average of about 3000 people daily, in fact, just give up. And I, for one, don't actually blame them. I mean, yes, they're at fault, but I can't bring myself to be angry at them at all. Frustrated, yes—why didn't they try harder?—but the fact that they did it is pretty much evidence to the fact that, in most cases, they couldn't find anything worth living for. Which brings me back to my being lucky.

See, I've developed, after several years persisting misery, a respect for myself that I did not previously have. I was told hundreds of times, by several different people, the words which are paraphrased below:

"It gets better."

And after a few years, without even realizing it, I began to believe that things would, in fact, get better. Lo and behold, they did. Those simple words, or rather, that simple and persistent sentiment, fought its way to the core of my being through the thick and thin of the misery I was in without any help from me whatsoever and it has stayed there all this time. I do not always remember that I have this solid assurance that things will get better within me, but I know that it's true. I know that the pain, however terrible, is temporary. It will go away, and I'll be okay again.

That knowledge created within me another truth: If I give in and let myself die things won't get better, because there will be nothing at all; I'll be dead. Whatever kind of afterlife claims me, be it heaven, purgatory, hell, rebirth, or simple nothingness, I won't be in my life anymore, and that will be the end of that.

I can't kill myself because things will get better. And if things will get better I can't kill myself.

Simple as pie, really. It's a miserable existence, but I can and will keep living with the hope that the best of my past will be the worst of my future.


Ja na!

"Sekai ichi no otoko to yobareru tame ni"—Character Song Carnival, One Piece

This is for people who don't really know about me or the way I think. For people who, specifically, don't understand the thought processes of someone with depression and anxiety disorder. I hope that having one specific account from one specific person helps clear up any question you may or may not have had.



Now, then. Tonight I'm auditioning for a role in a play at the semi-local community theater I've been volunteering at for.... Hmm, going on four years now (please note that I still mark years by when school starts). So yeah. I've read the play. I know the writer. I know the building like the back of my hand, even though, being a theater the exact layout changes fairly often. I've been in, what? Ten, thirteen actual plays and more skits than I could ever possibly count.
First, a bit of background: I’ve been involved with theater off and on—mostly on—since I was nine years old and eagerly participating in the after-school play. During the period of time from fourth grade to freshman year, I did just about everything there was to do, from acting to (admittedly rudimentary) set and costume design. I was in drama class for three years, first at my middle school and then my first high school. I was cast in both after-school productions during my time in middle school. I thoroughly enjoyed those three years in Drama, but decided not to continue studying theater after I transferred schools due to unfortunate circumstances... But oh wait. I can actually say this without having people freak out on my and send me in for evaluations! 

Okay, people. I had always disliked the drama teacher at my new school, from before I entered junior high. However, I loved working in theater enough to try and put that aside. I signed up for Theater II and on the first day of school walked into the auditorium with happy anticipation curling in my gut and my head held high. Class started and within five minutes of the bell ringing he called my friend a cow. A cow. One does not call troubled sixteen year old girls with body issues COWS. But he did. And he remembered me from when I had (almost) inadvertently humiliated him in from of potential students two years before. He didn't say anything, but I could tell her remembered and he could tell I did, too. Thus began my sophomore year drama class.


I didn't last three months.


In under three months, I probably missed fourteen or fifteen of his classes. Sometimes I missed a whole day, sometimes just Drama. Now, why did I not attend class, you may want to know. Well, friend, let me tell you:


I couldn't walk into the auditorium without inevitably, instinctively 
looking
for
a
way
to
kill
myself.

And there was no shortage of methods, considering the tools left scattered around by the Technical Theater class who were building the set for the upcoming play and the catwalk that I knew how to get up on and any number of other things. I remember turning in one assignment in all my time in that class: it was part of a group competition-type thing. The teacher shut me down four minutes into my presentation. "Okay, that's enough. Next, please," like it was a freaking audition. I dropped out of the class. More to the point, I attended school on a day I had that class and then sat in the waiting room of the counselor's office until I could talk to my counselor. They asked me to go to my class and told me that they would send a note to get me when he could see me. I said something along the lines of "I would, quite literally, rather die". (Not five minutes after saying that I was sitting across from my counselor. Imagine that.) By the end of the period I was all set up to go to study hall during the time I would have been in Drama, and I was happy as a clam.

The day I quit was also the day a large group presentation was due. I hadn't really known any of the people in my group. They were all older and smarter and, worse, they actually liked the teacher I was so afraid of. Regardless, the assignment was due. I didn't go to class, so I obviously did not turn anything in. As I walked across the patio to get to my friends, a girl I had known for years stood up from her table. "Ditcher," she accused. Another girl from the class looked over at me, sighed in a highly visible and dramatic fashion, then shook her head. I was frozen on the spot. It was the first time since coming to that school that anyone had drawn attention to me, that anyone had called me out, so to speak. More names were called, more accusations that I can't even remember now—something about hiding from responsibilities and being a coward who abandons people. I had no idea what to do, and I remembering being so, so, so relieved when two of my friends, one of whom was the one who had been called cow on my first day of school, seemed to see what was happening and walked over to get me, to rescue me.


Or so I thought. 'Cow' chatted happily with the drama kids who had been attacking me while the other girl took my hand and my lunch and led me over to where we were sitting. she sat me down and handed me my lunch and asked if I was okay. I told her something along the lines of "I'm sure I will be" and then 'Cow' swaggered over to us. (I didn't even know she could swagger, but she did.) She asked if I had really dropped out of class. Thinking back on it now, I can't even figure out how she knew I had been planning to drop out of class, but she did. They both did. And when I said yes and told them I would have study hall and, man, I couldn't believe that Stephenie had actually said all that. Now, both of these friends also quite liked the teacher, and knew I didn't. The one in class with me knew I was on edge when I was in class and how many days I missed, just not why. Worse yet, she has panic disorder too. And she looked at me contemptuously and sneered, 


"I can. You deserve it. What were you thinking, dropping out of class like that? You can't just do that!"


I blinked at her, astounded and very, very confused. I looked to my other friend. 


She shook her head; I was getting no help from her, apparently. "You should have gone to class," she told me. "You should have stuck it out. All you did was run away. You're supposed to face your problems, otherwise you'll never grow as a person."


Well, thank you, T., for deciding the future of my mental/emotional/social state for the rest of my life. I really appreciate it. NOT. 


I stammered a few things, something like, "But, you don't understand..."


"No, you don't understand. What you did was wrong. You shouldn't have quit class..."


On and on it went. For a week those two and a few others pestered me about dropping out of class. They accused my of cowardice, laziness, disparaged my integrity, and otherwise alienated me until I finally sent one of them an IM saying something along the lines of "You want to know why I @$#@$ dropped out of Drama!? Because I couldn't walking into the %^&* auditorium without !%&$# WANTING TO KILL MYSELF. 
"THAT A GOOD ENOUGH REASON FOR YOU????" 'Cept I didn't use symbols then. I used words. And let me tell you one thing: It was supremely satisfying after a week of putting up with their crap.


They got off my back after that, all of them, so I can only assume that she sent the IM around our group of friends despite her promise not to breathe a word of what I told her to anyone. I know for sure that she told her entire family, because her little sister came up to me and asked me if I was feeling okay just a few days later.

Fast forward a month or two. That other Drama friend, the one not in in class, asked me to be the sound technician for a play at a local community theater. I worked sound for two plays that year, and have since continued volunteering there, working primarily as an usher and, when called upon, a stand-in sound technician. I love doing that. It's nice. Nicer when I was the only one in my family who worked there because it was something all of my own that gave me a nice, golden-warm feeling in the vicinity of my heart, but there's nothing I can do about that now. And hey, at least now I don't have to feel bad for having them drive me there all the time, because now it's not just for me. I guess.

"It was like somebody else had the remote to my brain and they kept changing the channel before I wanted them to."—Canada Gold, 'The Thousand' by Kevin Guifoile

Apparently there's a book that features a character suffering from extreme ADHD. She uses the above statement to describe it, or so I gather. it seems,to me, an apt description of the condition that so many human beings possess or, as the case may be, are possessed by.

Having not read the book and possessed of no overpowering urge to do so puts me in the interesting situation of having something to say, a way to say it, a starting point for the conversation... and, perhaps, no one to listen. This is going to jump around a bit, but I trust that you'll be able to keep up with me. Here I go, regardless.

In this apparently Dan Brown-esque novel, The Thousand, there is a treatment used for ADHD that has numerous negative side effects. Well, okay. Welcome to the real world. Whether you medicate via prescriptions from doctors, recreational drugs, natural vitamins, sugar, laissez-faire, or universe juice, there will be both benefits and drawbacks. When I was on Ritalin, I had very little appetite. In fact, I was around 13 before I weighed more than 80 pounds. That isn't healthy. But during that time, I could focus like nobody's business.

It's a trade-off. There are many methods, styles, combinations, words of wisdom, whatever, that you can use when it comes to dealing with ADD, ADHD, and any number of other things. I would advise neither recreational drugs nor laissez-faire—"let alone"—personally, but to each their own. When a condition manifests in as many ways as ADHD does, there is no definitive answer.

I was once told, in fewer words, that I was weak for using medication. Extremely unsettled by this accusation,  I spoke to a few people about it. Through those conversations I came to a conclusion and formed a strong opinion on the matter. Speaking concisely, my opinion is this:

I disagree.

To elaborate on that... I don't think that having what society seems to see as a handicap and doing something about it is weakness. I don't think I've ever seen a truly weak person admit that they need help, because it takes strength to admit that. I believe that finding a method that helps you is strength. You aren't weak if you can gather the courage and determination to pick up the tools that are so readily available to you, and that includes everything from Ritalin to the aforementioned universe juice.

Think of it this way: there are two houses that are across the street from each other. In each house, a person is sitting down, watching TV during a rainstorm. Each person notices that water is dripping from the ceiling. In each household, there is a storage room containing miscellaneous tools and supplies. In fact, that room is only a few steps from the TV room. One of the people gets up, walks over, and takes a bucket out of the supply room. They put that bucket under the dripping water. Their neighbor, however, simply ignored the leak. The next time it rains, the first person gets the bucket again, and the second leaves the room so they don't have to deal with the dripping sound. Eventually both the roof and the floor will need to be fixed, whereas across the street, only the roof needs repair.

Which person do you think did the more practical thing?

Now assume that both individuals grabbed buckets to catch the dripping rainwater. The next day, the sun is shining and one of the two picks up the phone and calls a local roofing company to get the roof patched up before the next rain. Their neighbor puts the problem from his or her mind, instead choosing to go about their lives with no interruption, trusting that the good weather will hold. Well, a few days later it rains again. One roof is fixed, and the other is... leaking. Time for the bucket again.

That bucket doesn't get any lighter between when it is set down under the leak and when it is picked up and dumped out. Every drop of water adds up until that bucket weighs a substantial amount. Carrying it is awkward, cumbersome, and it grows ever more so as time wears on. Yes, carrying the bucket time and time again may make you stronger. But stronger for what? For the next rainstorm? The next time you have to haul that bucket from your living room to your back door? Well, at least their floor isn't rotting this time.

Now, there is obviously a metaphor there, whether or not what the metaphor is about is obvious. Let me spell it you for you: There is something that is either irritating, depressing, frustrating, embarrassing, problematic, and any other number of things. That is your situation. You can either choose to ignore it and end up with bigger problems than you started out with, or do something about it and minimize the damage your situation can do to your life. And no, the first solution may not be the right one for you.

Alternately, if the fence around your house is broken, and your neighbor's dog keep sneaking onto your property and knocking over your trash can, which of the following is more practical: A) digging through your garage until you find a hammer, nails, and wood,and fixing the fence, or B) expecting your neighbor to teach their dog to know better?

There are innumerable kinds of people in this world, any way you look at it. But they come in pairs—you are either proactive, or you are reactive. Your motivations are either intrinsic, or you are extrinsic. And as I am aware that those words are not typically used in such a fashion, I will explain. Intrinsic, in this case, means not just part of the whole, but from inside. You inspire yourself, while being being extrinsic means externally—other have to motivate you. To quote a very wise man I'm lucky enough to know, "If you're intrinsic, what's right propels you. If you're extrinsic, you think 'If only someone would have...' Most of the men and women in jail today are extrinsic."

Are you going to let the floor rot under you or will you minimize the damage? Will you try one thing and hope that, eventually, it will work, or will you find an alternative solution? Will you be proactive in improving the things you are unsatisfied with, or will you leave it up to someone else, whose work may never meet your standards?

You are the only one who can make these decisions for you. And if it's your child... which person do you want them to be? The person who is willing to use a hammer and make a little noise, or the one with trash all over their lawn?

Ja na!