I’m getting better at this whole identity crisis thing.

I was misdiagnosed at 19 with monopolar depression, usually called Major Depressive Disorder.

I was tested so extensively at UCF’s psychology department in 2000, I thought I couldn’t possibly be autistic.

My best friend, the one who’s knew me best after my mother died until I started questioning vaccine safety when I was pregnant, told me she saw the ’tism in me, but I had just watched the documentary on Temple Grandin’s life, and thought I was nothing like her, so no way I could be autistic.

Not autistic was so much a cornerstone of my identity, figuring out I was autistic blew my mind literally, and painfully in the hostile environment my own home had become, as my skills regressed, my mania raged, and I was stubbornly insisting I could not be bipolar because I never experienced mania.

And because so many doctors would have noticed, I assumed.

I blame the ’tism for my naivete and the ADHD for my distractibility. But they are me, too.

My life had to fall apart for me to get the right diagnoses and treatment.

First the ADHD. Then my autism started showing so brightly, even I could see it.

But no one knows what autism is, and even fewer are going to actually talk to us socially tone-deaf weirdos.

I gotta get my happy back.

Singing to my inner Pollyanna this beautiful ballad by Pink, who I see live in 9 DAYS! Woot!

When I’m happy, I clean and reorganize, so I started today sorting the boys’ clothes, putting away Dylan’s (sorta, we’re going to organize his clothes together later.).

Put Aiden’s in his room. Got my dirty laundry in a basket, off all the floors, including Daddy’s socks from beside the stairs and the towels left in the floor to soak up spills.

The Ritalin is working today.

And if this is mania, I’m going to harness it.

I’ve gotten the best sleep of my life on the new mood stabilizers. I finally feel calm all day.

I wish I didn’t drive everyone away in the recent past. But it’s natural to avoid people who bring you down. My rejection sensitivity only acts up when I’m not getting good sleep.

I’ve committed to using my art supplies, and my voice every day.

I don’t have to earn money to survive right now. That’s the privilege I’ve felt too bad over to abuse properly.

I bought all these paint supplies and books, and enrolled in classes, and I’m finally ready to complete them.

Yay color!