Our youngest is turning 8 on Thursday, and we’re taking him to Legoland to celebrate. This morning Lil Bit and I met the dogsitter and his dog, in preparation for staying the day with them. I learned that huskies and australian shepherds have special fur that is double insulated – meaning it keeps them cool in summer and warm in winter. Some owners shave them in hot states, which can cause them to overheat, and the fur may never grow fully functional.
I saw my psychiatrist today. All my meds are making me sane and balanced. It’s nice to feel normal for long stretches of time. Well, as normal as I can feel. As long as I don’t leave the house, I can forget how normal people see me.
I just need to stop caring what normies think. Get back to my affirmations. Other people’s opinions of me are none of my business. I can hear criticism and abuse without hurting my heart with it. I can hear the emotion behind the words and see the needs behind the behavior.
Unfortunately, normies outnumber abnormies.
Funny. I have the hardest time thinking about what to write when I’m writing morning pages by hand. But now that I’m sitting at my computer, my thoughts are just flying from my fingertips.
I’m having mild flashbacks, if there’s such a thing. An echo of manic rage and pain, and typing for hours on my phone, facebook, blog, everywhere. I don’t remember what I wrote, but there are aftershocks of shame and pain.
I don’t want to dive into my manic thinking. I saw some of it in my old morning pages. It was stream of consciousness jumping from stream to stream to stream for pages and pages.
I have videos and audio files I recorded when I was manic and couldn’t sleep or be still or calm the fuck down.
I don’t know how to make any of it right.
I can’t even remember everything I need to make right.
So, what then?
What would I tell my kids to do? Probably, apologize and accept their response, or lack of response.
But I also feel like I should just leave them alone. Now I’m a bad person to them, and they don’t want to hear from me.
Parts of me feel pulled in so many directions. I want to study anthropology, and writing, and spirituality, all over again. I want to write a fiction series, a self-help book, a children’s book, a memoir or two, AND I want to create a neurodivergent oracle deck.
I’ve been thinking about making a neurodivergent affirmation deck, too. Things we autistic, adhd, bipolar, etc people need to hear, unique to our shared experiences.
And I want to paint, draw, sing, declutter, organize, take my kids out, read, garden, do laundry…ok, I don’t really want to do laundry, but I need to. So then there’s all the other stuff I need to do.
My meds don’t fix my executive dysfunction, sadly. Nothing really does. There are tricks to help, like using someone else’s brain.
I’m disabled, and that was hard to swallow. Not because I see disabled people as bad, but because I realized that all these years of hating myself and struggling to survive, I really did need help. Always. Every day, even with common tasks I “should” be able to do at my age.
And my heart breaks for the millions of people like me who don’t know why they are the way they are, don’t know they can get help, and of course all the people who have no access to help.
And part of me is pissed that we allow assholes like Bezos, Musk, Trump to control more wealth than any one person could ever deserve while the bottom 50% of Americans struggle to survive.
People struggling to survive don’t have time to educate themselves. Our public schools are a terrible joke gone horribly wrong. Voters are the minority in this country of government by the people.
And everyone is sure they’re right and the others are wrong.
I’m tired of feeling helpless and hopeless. I’ve got to get more involved in changing the world for the better.
I care enough to talk, and to post, and to vote. Now I need to get over my phone anxiety, make calls, and join a resistance group. Get off my butt and do something.
Adventures of an Earthborn Alien 