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"I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work." ~ Thomas Alva Edison
Having lived most of their lives with the inconsistency, unpredictability and undependability of life with ADHD, it is incredibly common for adults with ADHD to view themselves as “failures”. Because the executive function of their brain is not always fully activated, it is in fact normal for them to fail at least sometimes, if not frequently. Beginning in early adolescence, these typical failures can become a permanent obstacle to future successes for those with ADHD as it undermines their confidence and willingness to take future chances.
It hurts to have borderline personality disorder (BPD), especially when trauma is a factor. However, people can cause what's called secondary wounding--that is, they can hurt by a person by their reactions when he/she turns to them for help. In her book I Can't Get Over It, Dr. Aphrodite Matsakis writes "Some victims reported that their secondary wounding experiences were more painful and devastating than the original traumatic event."
My most recent post asked if a parent and child should see the same psychiatrist. The consensus was a resounding "NO." (Honestly, can't you people make anything easy?) Admittedly, upon giving the situation further thought, I'd rather preserve my flawless appearance with Bob's psychiatrist and let someone else be privy to my hot-messiness.
And so the search begins. (Sigh.)
Self-talk is something we all do. In psychology they call it intrapersonal communication – or communication with oneself. It could be the voice of your mother in your head tell you to “take a jacket” or the voice of an old lover telling you that “you’re fat” or simply a recitation of the lyrics to YMCA for an hour at a time. However you do it, we all have an inner voice no matter how unconscious it may be.
In my last article, I talked about insomnia and the impact it can have on mental health. I talked about the importance of sleep in our recovery. It can spur feelings that we might be inching close to relapse. Often, insomnia is just insomnia. But oversleeping is different. A lot different. Night and day different--Pardon the horrible pun!
Who doesn't remember the pictures of a fragile and wan-looking Mary Kate Olsen, draped in a pale lavender gown as she and her twin, Ashley Olsen, received their stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame? The majority of people saw a young woman on the edge of death; clearly too thin, bones protruding.
Then there are those of us who were enmeshed in our eating disorders. We saw a gorgeous young woman; someone to aspire to be like. Therein lies the dangers of the media.
I've written a lot about myself and my relationships on this blog, but now I'm turning to the tumultuous relationship of a public figure for my inspiration. Last week, we lost an icon, the incandescent Whitney Houston. Now, in her demise, the talk turns to her drug addictions and her relationship with ex-husband Bobby Brown.
Two weeks ago I took a Benadryl because I was struggling with some sinus issues, and a few hours later at work, I felt like I was ‘off.’ I was sort of dazed, out of it, brain was not thinking as quick, and my entire body was tired. It literally took me half an hour to figure out that the Benadryl was the mostly likely cause. I take Benadryl a lot, and rarely feel any side effects, but this day I was completely uncomfortable in my body. I didn’t feel centered or in control of how my body was feeling. It felt like I was drugged, and it was uncomfortable.
I've been shopping for a new psychiatrist for my chronic severe depression and anxiety, and I think I've found a good one. Female, office nearby, personable, good reputation, and covered by my insurance.
There's just one possible snag--she's already seeing my son.
"You need therapy!" he yelled at me. Will, who didn't believe in therapy, was right. I did need therapy, but not for the reasons he insinuated. I needed therapy during my abusive marriage to help me pull myself back together. I mean that literally.
Abuse pulled me apart, diced me in pieces, added a quart of my abuser's personality, threw out most of mine, and then to remolded me into a meatloaf. Baked at 400 and set on the counter to cool, I wondered "What the heck just happened?!" I knew I was different, but I didn't know why and couldn't remember how, so I started on my quest to learn to like myself the way I was.
I haven't had a drink in 9 years and two months.
I Googled everything on the subject and have come to the conclusion it is not a relapse.
However, I am going to read labels more carefully!