List of Projects

Last post I told you that I had too many projects that it was making my head buzz…

But today, it’s giving me more joy than pain. Which is good! But it’s STILL a ton of projects!

Here’s what I got going on this weekend:

-Organizing office and studio equipment

BEFORE- Living Room/ My “office”

-Mount bookcase lighting

-Set up for screen painting project. This is an exciting porch project that I decided to do inspired by the Baltimore window screens. This great folk art tradition in Maryland. But I think I will actually paint something a little more Georgia O’Keefe and a little less Bob Ross. (No matter how much I love him. I love her too.)

Baltimore Window screens

-put away the clean laundry that has been piling up

-organize electronics and DVD’s so that they are out of my bubba’s reach- he has destroyed so, so many blue rays

-organize toys again, still working on the right system where he can find what he wants independently but also can communicate his needs with us at the same time. It’s a trial and error kind of thing.

-set up at-home therapy/school cabinet. My buddy will be going back to school more regularly soon. But, if anything, this pandemic has taught me that I can’t rely on school alone for my son’s education.

-Change lighting fixtures in both dining room and kitchen, including finding a replacement for kitchen light for under ten dollars. My husband’s challenge.

BEFORE Dining Room Light

The Dining Room light flickers in a way that makes me nervous given our recent wiring mishaps on the porch. Also I want a something with daylight equivalent for night painting. There is no before picture of the kitchen light because it was an ugly industrial fluorescent light that I have hated for years. Not picture worthy.

-Finish the porch project- but uhg! It’s so hot and itchy!

Then, really, just basic clean up. There are crumbs everywhere. And Amazon boxes. Not as many boxes as there are crumbs. But that’s still a lot of boxes.

Most of these projects are just me trying to regain some control in an out of control world. But either way. I’m feeling good about it.

I can’t… But I will

I’m having an “I can’t” mental health day which is inconvenient because I have a lot to do. Is it strange to be embarrassed by how much bad luck we’ve been experiencing personally, when there is so much worse going on globally?

Like every tele-therapy session I have for my son, when they ask how things have been going I have to explain-

“I had an allergic reaction that made my hands virtually melt.” Or “There was a small fire in my DIY renovation.” Or “A pipe burst when I was trying to change the garden tap.”

Little did I know when I took this before picture that this tap would blow up my life. And would lead to several other issues.

Or “two of the four appliances in my kitchen are broken and I have to fix them with grit and youtube alone.”

“I’ve been electrocuted twice despite turning off the appropriate breakers. Can’t find my voltage detector, obvs”

That looks safe, right?
I didn’t think so either. Fire in 3…2…1

“Carpenter bees keep attacking my porch, despite the fact that I bought them their own little bee home. I punted one out of the air with my boot and I swear I heard it curse at me in bee language.”

“I keep telling my son that he has to have shoes on in the construction zone, but he keeps ‘losing’ them. Which means he hides them. But I am legit scared that he could get blood poisoning from the dirty sharp nails and jagged discarded siding.”

“I just confiscated a bunch of magnets he was trying to eat. Bubba is inconsolable.”

This was taken before the magnet-gate but I’m pretty sure he was annoyed at me for something else.

“My husband has pronounced a fatwa on the renovation, and has forbidden me from talking about it to protect his own sanity. Understandable, it really is. But also embarrassing. It makes me feel like our This Old House issues are somehow my issues because I want to fix them, not ignore them.”

“I can’t feel my feet. And my joints are so angry at me. And my allergies keep making my lips swell up and sting.”

It’s embarrassing. And embarrassing means something else entirely for me. It means, I get overwhelmed and raw and vulnerable, when all I want to do is a have a safe place for my son to play on our screened in porch- because we don’t have a fence, and he’s been starting to elope into busy streets on our walks. So suddenly, a safe entertaining play area becomes a matter of life and death because I can’t sprint as fast as my four year old.

Serious moment. This could have been the last picture of my son and I. I took it by accident when he was ripping his hand out of mine to run into the street.

I know that it’s gonna be ok. I can already feel my meds kicking in, and taking the edge off that vulnerability. And my small porch fire that I was able to stamp out with my gloves is nothing compared to the fact that Minneapolis is blazing.

It’s gonna be ok. Just for right now… I can’t.

But I will.

Art supplies and Navigating material loss from trauma

Or, the Shit I literally Left Behind When I Ran Away

In case you are wondering from my Mean Reds post. I did end up rewarding myself by looking at my art supplies and organizing my studio space. That might sound cooler than it is. Let me just remind you with an earlier picture… it’s a twenty year old easel and rolling tabouret that I keep in my dining room next to my son’s toys. The toys have twice the real estate that I do. So, yeah.

I live a very glamorous life.

But even this brought up some things for me. This lovely gathering of my brushes and paints. That’s how it is with trauma. You’re doing something wonderfully entertaining or even wonderfully mundane, keeping a wary eye on any potential mental dangers ahead and BAM! Trauma memory! In from the sides, where you were least expecting it!

The point is… you are alive when they start to eat you…

Uh. Ok. That was a Jurassic Park reference. My trauma memories don’t literally eat me alive. They just feel like that sometimes.

No, this was about all the beautiful art and art supplies that I have lost because of my need to run from certain situations.

For some people, leaving material goods behind in an escape, is about escaping from something truly dangerous or unhealthy at the very least. Refugees from war. Leaving a spouse.

A friend of a friend, was leaving her husband while he was at work, and all I could think about was her collection of glass jars, filled from the soil of all the places she’s traveled. Could you imagine a more petty revenge? Smashing the sand from the Himalayas with the brick gravel of Prague? You could never un-do it. It would all blend together like a discarded mandala. It makes me shudder to think about it.

A wonderful high school friend of mine, who is now a teacher, with a beautiful family, wrote about such an escape and loss on her blog, back in 2014. She was leaving an abusive situation and had to abandon many of her prized possessions, including a cherished ceramic Christmas tree. It’s the little things that you really miss.

I on the other hand, have lost a lot of little things, but not because of war or abusive relationships, when I ran, I was always running from myself.

One such loss came in the form of the most beautiful, most precious collection of paint brushes I have ever owned, a wooden paintbox, and several good paintings.

I left them in the art studio of my school. Just left them.

Two traumatic things happened that caused me to leave and never come back. One, a very kind art professor passed away. And two, I made a very vulnerable, very public mistake. I was at her service, my professor, feeling very uncomfortable with all the people. And as I was signing a condolence book, someone behind me asked, “How are you doing, Holly?”

And it all just came pouring out. Vulnerable grief and doubt, not very well spoken. Honestly, I can’t even tell you what I said. It was just a lot.

Then I turned around, and they were talking to a different Holly. It was so humiliating. I can still see all the looks of gobsmacked confusion on their faces. Who is this person? Why is she talking to us?

How do you come back from that? I had already had so much trouble connecting with people. It was like having the rug pulled out from under me. Or being stripped naked in front of a crowd.

So, I ran.

I’ve run from a lot of things. Relationships, classes, jobs- all because of the trauma of living as an autistic person in a neurotypical world.

And legitimately, my brushes and paintings mean nothing when you compare it to real abuse, or real war refugees. Especially the people in camps, or war torn countries. I know that, I don’t lack perspective. If anything that knowledge makes the humiliation that much more keen.

Today though, it’s making me think of the german painter, Franz Marc. I have recently rediscovered Marc’s work (mostly because I had conflated him with another German expressionist by the name of Kandinsky, and always wondered why I couldn’t find his beautiful blue horse paintings anymore. That was because they weren’t his paintings, they belonged to Marc.)

Anyway, Franz Marc was a German Expressionist painter at the turn of the century. He did these beautiful futurist, fragmented, but colorful, paintings of animals that I just loved so much as a girl.

Stables, by Franz Marc, 1913.

He died in the Battle of Verdun, after they had already given the order to pull him back from the fighting. For the sake of modern art, that’s why they ordered him away from the front. What a reason, right? It was true too. He probably had so much more to give. Before he died, he was in charge of painting camouflage tarps. He said he did them in the style of Seurat.

All that waste, just breaks my heart.

I imagine that my brushes weren’t wasted. I like to think that someone put them in the lost and found. Then maybe someone took them home. My paintings might still be leaning against a wall somewhere, or someone might have taken them home too. There was a particularly beautiful oil still life of copper kettle and a book. Maybe it will always be more beautiful in my memory. And that’s not so bad. That’s not a waste.

I can make more paintings. I won’t be a casualty in my own war against myself. I might have to retreat occasionally. That’s realistic, but I really, really just want peace.

Peace… And maybe some new brushes.

How We Talk To Each other

I have been on a horrible journey, my friends. I have been… to Twitter. As a neurodivergent person who has incredible anxiety around social situations, digital or otherwise, I had avoided Twitter, well, until today. So basically, for as long as it has existed. (There was about five seconds back in 2013 where I signed up for an account and then immediately left due to being uncomfortable with its interface- but I went back!)

In my want to help people, I thought I should really try and stretch my abilities and get on to to Twitter.

Oh… my… god…

My head is still pounding. I haven’t unfurled my brow for like 20 minutes. I’m listening to an ASMR stress relief video in hopes of EVER AGAIN releasing the muscles around my neck and shoulders.

You see, there is a war going on. And it’s just about everything, and everywhere, but especially in the autism community. It is rife with anger, pain, and miscommunication. I thought it was just the LGBT community that acts like this, but NO! The Autism community is just as a big of a clusterf*ck.

This is not advocacy. This is a cacophony. And worst of all, it’s just another form of assimilation. Both sides want all of you, or none of you. Moderate voices who just want to make things better for themselves or their loved ones are drowned out by the immense wave of politics and rhetoric.

Of course, I am not talking about all advocates, for either end of the “advocacy spectrum.” I still have my favorites, like the wonderful Sarah Turner aka Autistic Barbie or Dela with her Happy Hands comic, both very lovely and articulate women with strong voices. And for the other end of the spectrum, I have found my son’s “preschool” clinic, The Place, to still be a rational voice of support in the ABA field. Spectrum- Autism Research News, as well, has shown to be a good source of information thus far.

As I said before, in one of my previous posts, when I reasonably tried to talk to another mother about the good and the bad of ABA, I was jumped on by several autistic advocates. No matter what I said, they called me an ableist and a child abuser. It was beyond confrontational, and despite my repeated requests to respect my limits, they harassed me into a meltdown. This was not the first time I saw this going on, but it was the first time it happened to me.

While I have problems with ABA therapy and person-first culture, I still support rational conversations. And will continue to reach out to anyone who is brave enough to ask a genuine question on social media, with no judgement or anger. Because harassment does nothing accept shut down any prospect of diplomacy or collaboration.

For example, because of people like this, REAL advocacy groups like Autistic Women and Non-Binary Network get shut out and blocked when asking important questions. Like when this author tried to correct a factually inaccurate article in Autism Parenting Magazine. They just assumed she was one of “them” and immediately plugged their ears. Because they had learned to ignore Neurodivergent advocates.

In all these… blaring arguments… this blinding disorder… I really started to question what I could do as an advocate myself, against all this misinformation and vitriol. I found myself wanting to cover my ears like my son does, and then scream until it all stopped. Until it was finally silent.

But you can’t do that.

Because there are people that still need help.

I’ve lived a life as an autistic person in hiding. I’ve lived with ADHD, OCD, and severe anxiety. My life and my experience have value. My authority as a parent with a high support autistic child, has value. My first hand account of the difficulties experienced by children with Apraxia and other sensory communication disorders, has value.

So, I will probably wade back into the horrible land of Twitter from time to time. And I know that I will experience the harassment from both sides of the neurodivergent/autism divide. But I can take it.

(Well, my therapist, my meds, and I can take it, together, I hope.)

My point… Oh god, my point is so important on this one people. Stop arguing about us vs them. The world is not this binary. I know that person first vs identity first language, is important to many people. The argument of therapy vs abuse, is important to many people. Supports vs a cure, is important to many people. But there is so much more important work to be done!

There are children who are being forced to ingest bleach. There are insurance companies denying autistic people support and causing families to go bankrupt because of overwhelming costs. There are people being denied diagnoses because of outdated practices. And there are eloping children dying alone or abducted.

I’m not saying that your causes aren’t important. I’m asking for civility and a little bit of empathy.

Or is what they say about us true? Are we truly without empathy?

I don’t think so.

Right Now

This probably won’t be a very well written post. But it will be honest. That is because I am going through a crisis… right now.

You see, I forgot to take my medication yesterday, because of the general lawless quarantine- no routine- life we are all living at the moment.

And even though I remembered my meds this morning. I am paying for yesterday’s mistake… right now.

I feel like crying and throwing up all at once. My sensory overload is almost unbearable and my ADHD is in overdrive, which means that my Rejections Sensitive Dysphoria is also in overdrive. So all the progress I’ve made in the last few months, has just disappeared.

Fortunately, I have been doing a lot of studying in those properly medicated months. With my counselors, and on my own. I am especially interested in something called Dialectical Behavior Therapy, which deals with regulating emotions and living in the moment. Or you know… right now.

It feels a lot like Eckhart Tolle’s The Power of Now, if any of you are familiar with this hobbit-like genius. (I have always felt that Eckhart looked like either the spirit that helps you find the true meaning of Christmas, or a super villain. Don’t know why. He’s really awesome, so I’m not trying to make fun. Anyway, ADHD, like I said…)

My father went through a Power of Now phase, I think, in the early 2000’s? It was a big deal for us in our house. Unfortunately, my father was a little more in-tuned with his issues than we were at the time, so we were like, “Ok, whatever Dad, I’m gonna go watch the Gilmore Girls, with the power of fast talking.” I wasn’t very enlightened. I was also suffering from severe ADHD, so yeah. Not my fault.

(Okay, as an honest observation here, I think you might be able to see what an un-medicated ADHD mind is like. It jumps, and jumps, and jumps. So even if the person themselves, is not jumping about, that does NOT mean they do not have ADHD. I’m sitting perfectly still as I write this, but my mind is doing somersaults.)

So, honestly, being without my meds is a good reminder that you need more than just pharmaceuticals to get you through the hard times. You need tools. You need methods and tips to reason with the parts of you that are simply unreasonable.

I’m gonna look more into DBT, because I think it might be good for ASD people as well. I know that it works well for people with Borderline Personality Disorder and that’s something of a cousin to Autism Spectrum Disorder. (I think BPD is more trauma-based where ASD is a neurological type. Don’t quote me on that. It’s just my understanding.)

Honestly, this might also be an anxiety hangover.

I was saying to my instagram buddies yesterday, I have severe, SEVERE conflict anxiety. And Autism Awareness Week always puts me in a state. Letting people be wrong, is very hard for me. But having the conflict to tell them they are wrong, is excruciating. This is also hard on my self esteem because I find this part of me to be something like cowardice. And so I am not forgiving in this aspect of my mental illness.

What is cowardice if not being afraid of a fight? But fights- just destroy me.

My Enneagram type is Type 2- The Helper- Or the Caring, Interpersonal Type- Demonstrative, Generous, People-Pleasing, and Possessive. Which means that I literally just want everyone to get along. And for me, that “posessive” quality transfers to a fierce, FIERCE loyalty. Meaning that I am often drawn to fights because of my intense emotions and need to protect what is “mine.” And as deep as my social anxiety is, I will go to WAR over loyalty. Basically, I’m the “Leave Brittany Alone” guy, crying under a blanket. I just don’t film it and upload it. My sensibilities stop that kind of public self destruction, most of the time.

(Disclaimer, I completely agree with “Leave Brittany Alone” guy. She’s bipolar and should not have been photographed in the middle of an episode. Her attacking a car with an umbrella after shaving her head? Duh. That was an episode. An episode that allowed her family to come in and take over all her finances. I’m not saying that they did that to her. I’m hoping that they did it for her. But who knows?)

One of the best portrayals of this feeling I have ever seen came from Silver Linings Playbook. Honestly, that was one of the best portrayals of Bipolar Disorder I have ever seen, anywhere. Especially when he has an episode in the middle of the night looking for his wedding video. I’ve been there. But mostly I am talking about the scene while they are tailgating and someone goes after his therapist and then punches his brother.

The fear and anger is this overpowering wave of “fight or flight” but mostly just “fight.” Like extreme, red eyes, nose flaring “FIGHT.” Because I’m only 5’3″ and very soft, it probably seems laughable that I want to fight people. But I want to DESTROY them. And that kind of uncontrollable anger is scary. Hence, the severe, SEVERE conflict anxiety. Thinking about it now, it’s probably the opposite of cowardice. It’s barely contained restraint. And anything that is “barely contained” is going to be uncomfortable.

And some might say, just get angry! Start that flame war! Tell them off! But I’ve been down that road and it does nothing to help anyone. More than that, they haunt me. Those moments will haunt me forever. So even if it seems simpering, if I offend someone on the internet, or god forbid, in real life, I will apologize almost immediately. Not to admit fault, but as a ritual to spare me the pain later. I have to make peace, or I will never have peace.

Huh, well that was a little bit cathartic. I feel better. That or my Adderall is finally kicking in. (I’m also listening to ASMR as I write this.) Whatever, it is. I’ll take it.

The point is… I started this blog to help. Not because I have it all figured out, but because I am a deeply flawed human being who tries to learn from her mistakes. If you can learn from my mistakes before you make them yourself, then I have accomplished what I set out to do. So, thanks.

Also, don’t forget to take your meds.

Neurodivergent Survival Guide

I’m starting a new aspect of Holly Loves John, with the Neurodivergent Survival Guide. This will be a living document that records my tips and lessons on how to survive in the neurotypical world with a neurodivergent mind. Now, this is my neurodivergent mind, or more specifically, an autistic woman, with ADHD, OCD, RSD, Sensory Processing Issues, Anxiety, Bipolar, and Agoraphobia. There are many other aspects of neurodiversity that I have little to no experience with, so they will not be apart of this guide, just an FYI.

This week, I am starting with sensory issues, including Hyperosmia, Misophonia, and Photophobia.

It will be under the Me(ntal Health) menu option from now on as the “ND Survival Guide.”

Check it out! And happy reading!

Sick While Anxious


In the interest of not burying the lead, I believe that I have COVID-19. I say believe because getting tested is not something I am interested in. My symptoms are still relatively mild; I have a big boot of pressure on my chest, a dry cough, and a mild fever. It’s painful, but I can still get air. So I have no interest in leaving the house to endanger vulnerable people just to get a cotton swab shoved into my brain cavity.

But it’s got me thinking about what it’s like to be physically sick when you have an invisible illness at the same time. You see, whenever I get ill, that RSD inner critic starts to eat at me. It calls me a hypochondriac, a drama queen, it savagely whispers, “No one will believe you. No one will care.”

This is, of course, because I spend the majority of my time trying to convince others about those differences that I live with- those “illnesses” that require some occasional accommodation, i.e. ADHD, agoraphobia, autism, OCD, etc.

Now, you might say, but COVID-19 isn’t invisible. You are coughing, you have a fever. You look like shit. (Thanks for that last one.) And still I find myself on my phone, texting my sister about what else it could be. And then the obvious, irritating, always on the edge of my tongue question- Is this just anxiety?

It should be an honest and innocuous question, and it would be, if it weren’t for the ungodly amount of real life illnesses and complications that I have had that were blamed on my anxiety. And I know I am not the only woman to have this problem. Let’s get real. Female hysteria was a “legitimate diagnosis” for a very, very long time. And not that long ago, unfortunately. Ask me about Rosemary Kennedy’s lobotomy if you want a real medical horror story. Or do yourself a favor and read all about it.

TRIGGER WARNING: The article I’ve linked to about Rosemary Kennedy discusses an extreme form of ableism, medical assault during her mother’s labor, medical malpractice, and special needs abuse- abuse, in general. Even if you aren’t sensitive, it will effect you. If you have trauma in any of these areas, you might want to research a different source on Rosemary’s story.

A bright, beautiful woman failed by the medical profession from the time of her birth to her death.

Leaving the gender issue behind, people with diagnosed mental health conditions, including autism, are also being under-treated when it comes to physical health problems. (Judging from the information available about Rosemary Kennedy I think she was most likely autistic, if not intellectually disabled from her traumatic birth. So she had two “conditions” going against her.) In my life alone- where I was mostly only recognized as “anxious while female”- gallstones, pancreatitis, allergic reactions, dermatographia, and chronic infections were all vaguely blamed on my “stress.”

In one stunning moment at the ER, someone had the gall to blame my physical symptoms on my son’s autism diagnosis. I’m a very, very polite/timid person, mostly because of my RSD and anxiety, but I believe my direct quote was, “Are you shitting me?”

Maybe I just said that with my eyes. I’m not entirely sure. I was in a lot of pain.

The point is… and this is pretty much my continual, all-consuming, message… is this:

Demand help. If you are sick, take up the space that is necessary to protect yourself and others. Even if someone wants to downplay your symptoms, it’s on you to not only get help for yourself, but in this time of contagion, it’s on you to protect others. (Not just medical help either. Demand it from your family, your friends, your roommate, whomever. I’m not going to the doctor yet but my husband and I took the time to recognize my symptoms and make a plan if it gets worse.) Anxiety may lie to you and call you dramatic, but a virus will still infect your loved ones, whether they are willing to believe you or not.

A virus does not need outside confirmation to be legitimate, it just is. So in this case, just this one time, be like corona. Rear your ugly head (I told you I look like shit) and demand to be noticed.

It’s the only way we can live.

For interesting information on the effects of COVID-19, check out this New York Times article: What Does Coronavirus Do the the Body?

Poor Maureen

This post was originally written in May of 2018. Continue to read to the end for an update from today.

I have been talking a lot about my Avoidant Personality Disorder. Which has made me feel like an ambassador of some kind. But then I started thinking about my diagnosis, which was less than facebook official, and became suddenly wary.  (Which ticked my anxiety into high gear ironically—feelings of inadequacy, “I’m a fraud,” blah, blah, blah)  I don’t want to go into how I was diagnosed and subsequently medicated (boy, that sounds nefarious) but technically, well,  I’ve already mentioned it once before on this very blog so you probably already know… Cutting to the chase, I got my anxiety disorder diagnosed by my general doctor and not a psychiatrist.

Psychiatrist seems more legit, right? That’s what I thought too. So after a confusing series of emails to my doctor, the poor nurse may have thought I was some kind of nut (nothing’s wrong I just need legitimacy. No, I don’t want to hurt myself or others to get it. She wasn’t wrong about the nut part, but that’s not the point) I get an appointment with a counselor. They must deal with worse because she gave me a referral to the same counselor I saw when I first started my meds with very little hubbub. A counselor is like a psychiatrist, right?  I think to myself. Either way I don’t want to be too much trouble, so I take it.

Continue reading “Poor Maureen”

I am not a worm


At the start of this blog, I thought I was suffering from Avoidant Personality Disorder. I had found the diagnostic criteria, brought it to my doctor, not a psychiatrist, and thought I had my answer. Once I finally went to a psychiatrist, he called that a misdiagnosis. I thought, What a big mistake I’d made. Surely, yes, you should bring your ideas and research to your doctor, but bring it to the right kind of doctor. Your gynecologist should not be setting your cast, and your GP should not be diagnosing your mental health issues, right? Maybe. Maybe not. Years later, after much tumult and strife, not only did I find out that I was autistic, I was also diagnosed with Inattentive ADHD. And part of that ADHD was a lovely thing called Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria.

So now, that my meds are working, and my diagnoses are hopefully settled, I’ve been looking through old posts with my supposedly 20/20 hindsight. And I couldn’t help but notice just how similar the symptoms for Avoidant Personality Disorder and Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria can feel. So this sent me searching for a connection between the two. One of the more interesting ideas I have found is that Avoidant Personality Disorder is the result of untreated childhood ADHD, much like my own. How interesting would that be? If I had been on the right path after all?

So with that idea, I’ve brought up an old post I called “I am not a Worm” where I looked up the definition of Avoidant Personality Disorder and responded to each symptom. Now the fact that I tried to refute any of it may tell you that I was misdiagnosed BUT you also have to understand the power of masking when you are autistic. I fought against these traits because I was “supposed” to… because I was supposed to be offended, not relieved. Anyway, let’s take a look…

Continue reading “I am not a worm”

Fifty feathered headbands

I just finished several months work with a wonderful production. Much Ado about Nothin’, my jukebox musical inspired adaptation of the Shakespeare play had a great run. The kids were adorable. The show, fantastic. The goodbyes, tearful but happy.

So, why am I still crazy? Why am I still anxious? Why am I depressed?

Continue reading “Fifty feathered headbands”

A Little Kindness

So, I’m home on the weekend from my theatre gig. It’s father’s day and because I understand my husband we aren’t really doing anything except some serious fast food abandon (lots of Popeye’s red bean and rice, the big tub not just the little one.) And while we are eating John mentions that he’s going to have some of our friends over to play board games while I’m gone next week…and my stomach drops.

Continue reading “A Little Kindness”

Chronically batshit

It’s a real thing.

That’s what I have to say after discussion of literally any aspect of my mental or physical illness. It’s a real thing, I promise. There are more issues than I’d like to admit but like I’ve said before, this blog is about honesty.

Here is a list of the real things that I battle everyday—

Continue reading “Chronically batshit”