neurodiversity

Describe an item you were incredibly attached to as a youth. What became of it?

There’s an item from my childhood that I was incredibly attached to. His name was Squidy. He was a stuffed animal, though even now I couldn’t confidently tell you what kind. Maybe a dog. Maybe a bunny. But what mattered wasn’t what he was, it was how he made me feel.

For some reason, Squidy’s arm became my security blanket. It was my soft spot. Not just in texture, but in comfort. I would wrap my fingers around it and rub it between my nose and upper lip. I did this whenever I needed soothing, whenever my body felt unsettled or my emotions felt too big.

Squidy himself was a bit of a mystery. He wore an unmistakable pastel, 80-s style clown jumpsuit, and somehow fit perfectly int my world during a time when I needed comfort more than anything. The touch of his fabric against my skin grounded me in ways that I didn’t understand back then.

I didn’t know it at the time, but looking back now, I know what Squidy was for me. He was sensory regulation, emotional safety, and he was my stimming—my body’s way of calming itself during times of internal chaos.

Squidy never left my side. He traveled with me everywhere I went. He absorbed my ffears and held space for my anxieties. There was a reassurance in his presence. A reminder that meant everything will be okay.

Time hasn’t been kind to him. Squdy is quite literally falling apar at the seams now. His fabric is worn thin, though still soft, his structure is fragile. He’s from 1988 after all. But, I still have him and quite honestly, I’d never be able to let him go.

He’s tucked away now but is still very much a part of my life. He’s a reminder of how I learned to comfort myself long before I knew words like anxiety, overwhelm, or sensory sensitivity.

Squidy represents the earliest version of me learning how to cope, how to self-soothe in a world that felt too overwhelming. As I grew older, my coping mechanisms evolved.

During my teenage years, I became a hair twirler in times of nervousness and anxiety. I’d pick at my split ends, hyper-fixating on each strand as if I were searching for relief from being either under- or overstimulated. It became an effective habit.

Now, I vocalize.

I hum. I sing at random moments. And I repeat the same phrase over and over in my mind: “It’s okay. You’re fine.” Sometimes I mutter it under my breath when I’m around others, trying to keep it contained, trying not to draw attention.

There are moments when everything builds too quickly, when it feels like I need to shed a second skin just to breathe. In those moments, I have to admit that I’ve engaged in unhealthy coping—hitting my legs, slapping myself, punching myself to release the pressure. These moments are rare, but they are real. They’re part of my journey, even if they’re difficult to say out loud.

Other times, the release comes through scream crying—deep, uncontrollable sobs that pour out when I feel empty and completely spent.

I also struggle with what to do with my hands. When I’m nervous, they become sweaty, and I rub them together incessantly until my skin feels raw. It’s another attempt to ground myself. Another outlet for energy that has nowhere else to go.

From Squidy’s comforting arm to whispered reassurances, from hair twirling to humming melodies—every coping mechanism I’ve had has served a purpose.

Some have faded. Some have changed. New ones may come into play.

But one thing has always remained constant: I will always find a way to calm the ache during times of extreme discomfort.

Squidy may no longer be tucked under my arm, but he’s still here—and so is the part of me that learned, very early on, how to survive through softness.

What are some of your coping mechanisms? Do you still hold on to a special item?

“Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.”— A.A. Milne

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #Autism #AutismSpectrumDisorder #Anxiety

I always feel like I overreact. Especially because my reactions don’t always stay inside. Sometimes they show up in public—in parking lots, grocery store lines, or traffic when I’m already tired and just want to be home.

When I’m out running errands, I’m on a mission. I want to get in and get out. I’ve always been that way. For me, I become easily overwhelmed by my environment.

If I’m out shopping, I get sensory overload. The lights, the sounds, the smells, all can make me uncomfortable. Waiting in lines makes things louder in my mind, and standing still for too long feels utterly unbearable. My patience runs thin and it often disappears faster than I can catch it.

I’m known to start mumbling things under my breath. Complaining, sighing too loudly, letting my frustration leak out in ways I don’t realize until I’m already in the thick of it.

Recently, I was at the market, frustrated after waiting so long in the 10 items or less line. I began expressing my emotions and frustrations out loud, letting my anger show. The guy in front of me asked me if I was okay. I immediately blushed, turned away, and nearly cried, feeling a meltdown coming on. Then he asked if I wanted to go before him. That did it for me. I was so embarrassed by my actions: my complaining, my impatience, my foolishness. Once I got back to my car, I let it all out and scream-cried from embarrassment.

And then someone notices. “Are you okay?” That question makes my stomach drop, my cheeks turn red, and my tears rise to the surface.

Because suddenly I’m aware of myself—my tone, my face, my body. I feel exposed. Like I’ve embarrassed myself without meaning to. The irritation spikes, but underneath it is shame. I get angry, not just at the situation, but at myself for being seen like this.

I’ll watch other people standing so calmly in line just scrolling through their phones, waiting without any visible frustration. But there I am, standing there tapping my foot, thinking why things aren’t moving along faster or why I always have bad luck choosing the wrong line to be in. I take their quiet as proof that I should calm down, be less of a complainer, be less dramatic and stop being someone who makes too much out of nothing.

I don’t choose to act this way. It’s an automatic reaction. My body will respond before my brain has time to catch up. By the time I realize what’s happening it’s already over.

The aftermath of it all hits me with a wave of emotion. I’ll replay everything I said, wishing I had kept it in, feeling guilty for bringing my emotions into public spaces. I tell myself that I made things worse. That I overreacted. That I should have handled it better.

Even when I’m socializing, my mind is loud. I overthink and mentally react to everything and then judge myself for it. On the outside, I seem fine. On the inside, I feel ridiculous.

My thoughts tell me that I’m too much, even when I’m being quiet. They tell me that I can’t trust my own reactions. That my feelings are something to be embarrassed by.

Lately, I’ve been wondering if what I call “overreacting” is really just overload. A nervous system that reaches its limit quickly. A body that reacts before it has the chance to explain itself. I realized that when I overreact, I’m really just feeling things deeply, and intensely.

Maybe the hardest part isn’t the meltdown. Maybe it’s how harsh I am with myself once it’s quiet again.

I don’t know how to change this yet. But I’m trying to stop calling myself dramatic. I’m trying to name what’s really happening — overwhelm, exhaustion, and a need for relief.

Have you ever felt your emotions spill out in public, leaving you embarrassed afterward? How do you cope when your reactions feel bigger than you expected?

“Be gentle with yourself; you’re doing the best you can.”— Unknown

#MentalHealth #ADHD #Anxiety #Neurodiversity #self

One thing that I’m slowly learning is just how much damage my inner critic has done to me over the years.

That voice inside is relentless. It tells me that I’m worthless, useless, and a burden to the world. It critiques my every move, my every action, my every thought, as if I’m constantly being evaluated. Everything feels like there’s evidence stacked against me.

This has been with me for most of my life. In my mind, there’s constant judgment, constant self-surveillance. The thing is, I don’t just experience things, I analyze and punish myself for how I experience them. I attack my character, my personality, my intentions. I tell myself that I’m essentially just a waste of space. It’s detrimental.

Self-comparison only fuels this fire. I’ve learned how harmful it is, yet it’s something I fall into easily. Watching others exude such confidence, ease, or certainty makes my inner critic louder. It tells me that I’m behind in life and broken in ways that I can’t fix. And once I see that narrative come into the picture, it’s hard to see anything else.

The truth is, I haven’t thought very highly of myself for a long time. I don’t just criticize what I do, I criticize who I am. The way I look, the way I talk, the way I speak, it makes me cringe sometimes. I walk with my eyes down, shoulders tense, as though I’ve been placed in a corner, quietly apologizing for existing at all. Shame lives in my posture, not just my thoughts.

But something changed with my newfound understanding of neurodivergence.

It didn’t erase the inner critic, but it gave me context. For the first time, I wasn’t just “bad” or “failing,” or “lazy.” I’d been walking through life believing that I was indeed a problem to be corrected. I had been navigating a world that wasn’t built for the way my mind works, without knowing why everything felt so hard.

I’ve started to recognize my strengths—my empathy, my insight, my sensitivity, my depth. I started to notice that I do have something to offer, even if it doesn’t look like what the world typically rewards. I’ve become a little more compassionate, patient, and a little less cruel to myself in moments when I struggle.

Still, I’m unlearning a lifetime of negative-self, and it’s not easy to do.

When you’ve been stuck in that pattern for so long, it becomes familiar, almost automatic. The inner critic appears before you can stop it, repeating old habits that once felt like protection but now only cause harm. Some days I can catch it, but other days, it catches me first.

Trying to silence the inner critic doesn’t mean pretending I suddenly love myself. It means noticing the attack and choosing, when I can, not to pile more shame on top of it. It means reminding myself that this voice was shaped by years of misunderstanding—not truth.

I think acknowledging that my inner critic exists, and that it isn’t me, feels like a meaningful step toward self-compassion and self-acceptance. I believe that’s where the healing starts. Not in silencing my voice entirely, but by choosing not to believe everything it says.

How does your inner critic show up?

“Talk to yourself like you would to someone you love.”— Brené Brown

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #selfcare #Anxiety #Depression #ADHD #AutismSpectrumDisorder

Most of the time, I keep it all together. I don’t like drama or confrontation of any sort, so I keep the peace, keep it calm, maintain a vibey flow. I put on a smile when I’m feeling down. I manage because I don’t want to let my walls down and let others see my pain. I never want to burden anyone with my problems, so I keep them tucked away.

I’m also not comfortable expressing myself, even with my closest friends, because I can’t get through a sentence without tears welling up. I just don’t like showing that side of myself.

When Everything Boils Over

But there are times when everything boils to the surface. When I crack. When I explode into an array of emotions.

It happened just the other day during an intense RSD episode. I took an idea, ran with it, and ended up harming others and myself. I made this whole big thing out of nothing, and now I’m left feeling embarrassed, guilty for jumping to conclusions, and hurting the people closest to me by calling them out.

“Most of the time I keep it together. But underneath it all, there’s this underlying exhaustion.”

Exhaustion from trying to keep up appearances, trying to be put together, trying to hold myself in check while my mind and body are carrying a heavy load.

The Weight of Depression

Lately, I’ve been going through a major bout of depression. I don’t even know what triggered it—whether it’s seasonal, situational, or the weight of too many unresolved stressors piling up at once. My habit is to push it all to the side, essentially erase it from my brain until it all reaches the surface.

And when that happens, I’m forced to confront it. My emotions go all out of whack. I cry. I scream. I meltdown. I freeze. I feel everything at once.

It’s a major heavy load to carry. I feel like I’m always walking around with a rock tied to my shoulders. I’m always tense, always doubtful, always anxious.

And yet, I still manage to keep it together. I keep it together because I don’t want to burden anyone. I keep it together because I don’t want people to see how much I’m struggling. I keep it together because that’s what I’ve always done.

The Cost of Keeping It Together

But it comes at a cost. Holding it together is a vicious cycle of “pretend I’m okay” while being emotionally and physically exhausted. It’s carrying so much inside and rarely letting it out until it all erupts. And even then, even in the explosion, it feels messy and hard to handle.

This is the quiet cost of always holding it together.

It’s not something that people notice because from the outside I look fine, capable, calm, functioning. But inside, there’s a constant effort to stay composed, regulated, and to keep everything from spilling over.

I’m learning that holding it together all the time is more about survival than strength. And surviving this way leaves very little room for rest. It leaves me holding everything alone, even when I don’t need to.

Learning to Loosen the Grip

I don’t suddenly know how to let my guard down or express myself without tears. But I’m starting to recognize the pattern.

Maybe the work isn’t about falling apart or fixing it all at once. Maybe it’s more about loosening my grip just a little and stop pretending I’m okay when I’m not.

Because constantly holding it together has a cost, and I’m learning that I don’t have to pay it alone.

Where in your life are you holding it together at the expense of your own well-being?

“You don’t have to control your thoughts. You just have to stop letting them control you.” – Dan Millman

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #Depression #Anxiety #ADHD #AutismSpectrumDisorder

What is the greatest gift someone could give you?

I believe the greatest gift that you could receive from someone is their love and appreciation.

The word love is tossed around like a ragdoll. You have people constantly saying they love you, but do they really when their actions don’t meet their words? When I say I love you, I mean it with my whole heart. Sure, I say it frequently to my friends and family, but that’s because I genuinely feel that emotion toward them. I don’t say it just to say it.

From my experiences, I’ve had people in my life tell me they love me, but I don’t feel the depth or emotion behind it. Maybe there is, and I’m just misconstruing it all, but I’m intuitive enough to know when someone means it or not.

Because of this, I’m also the type of person that seeks validation at every corner. I want to know that I’m included, that I belong, and that I’m worthy of love and appreciation. I need to hear words of affirmation, a long hug that feels real, and maybe a compliment or two.

Because of my rejection sensitivity, hearing that the love I give is reciprocated is essential for me.

I’ve never experienced having a partner who loved me for me. It’s an incredibly lonely place to watch others thrive, be in healthy relationships, and notice the strong amount of love shared. And while I honestly love to see love, I yearn for it and want it for myself.

Over time, that longing has made me feel unlovable. I’ve had more situationships than real ones—ones who never take the leap and actually want to date me, and instead just use me for their own gain. I know this to be true because there always seem to be other people in line waiting to make me feel worthless.

In turn, I’ve made myself vulnerable and more susceptible to hurtful situations. I’ve placed myself in the category of being unworthy of love. I think very negatively about myself and am constantly wondering why true love is so hard to obtain. I pretend like I don’t care because I know that they don’t, but deep down, it’s the total opposite.

Because of that, I like to hear words of reassurance to make me feel seen. Otherwise, I’m still the invisible girl—standing in a circle with people, having them step in front of me, and quite frankly, all over me.

At the end of the day, I still believe that the greatest gift you could receive is to love and be loved. To feel admired and appreciated among those you view as close people in your life.

I think it’s important for us to show our love because, from past experiences of losing people, I tell them all of the time. Tomorrow is promised to no one, so make sure you tell the ones you love how much you appreciate them.

Where in your life do you need love to be shown, not just spoken—and what would feeling truly seen look like for you?

“To love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides.” — David Viscott

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #ADHD #AutismSpectrumDisorder

I experienced a heavy wave of rejection last night.

I noticed that my close friends had gathered together for what I can only assume was a New Year’s celebration. The thing is—I didn’t get an invite. The day before, I had spoken to one of them and we’d made plans to hang out. When the evening came and I hadn’t heard anything, I reached out. No response.

Fifteen minutes later, I saw a friend post an Instagram story of them all together, laughing and having a great time.

I texted again, asking about the get-together. Still nothing.

I felt incredibly hurt—overlooked, unseen, invisible. In my body, the pain was joined by rage. My immediate reaction was to cut them off entirely. That you don’t care, so I don’t care instinct kicked in hard. I wanted to go for the jugular and make them feel as hurt as I did.

But I’ve lived with RSD long enough to know how this usually goes.

It always gets turned back on me. I become the bad guy for having feelings at all.

Rejection sensitivity dysphoria doesn’t just show up in dramatic moments. It lives quietly inside everyday social dynamics. Missed invitations. Unanswered texts. A shift in tone. For many people, these moments sting and pass. But for those of us with RSD, they can feel catastrophic, as if our sense of safety, belonging, and worth is suddenly on trial. It’s not about wanting special treatment. It’s about how our nervous systems interpret perceived rejection as something deeply threatening.

I vented to other friends. I know they were trying to help, but nothing they said landed.

“Tell them how you feel.”

“They love you—they didn’t do it on purpose.”

“They probably just wanted to keep it small.”

To me, it all felt like phony bologna. If they cared, wouldn’t they have invited me?

Instead, I felt like an afterthought—or worse, not a thought at all. Like they secretly don’t like me, or maybe even loathe me. I’ve known these people for over twenty years. You’d think I’d cross their minds.

I know adulthood creates distance. Life happens. People move away. Some stay. I stayed too. But this group was once incredibly close. And now, the friends I still have here don’t seem to want to see me very often. My truest friends live out of state.

So, I’m lonely here. I’m alone. And when you’re lonely, everything feels sharper. Louder. More painful.

I know how this probably sounds to some people.

Why can’t she just get over it?

Why can’t she see it wasn’t intentional?

Believe me—I hear those thoughts too. And every time, they come back to bite me. I end up feeling foolish. Too emotional. Too reactive. The one who jumps to conclusions too fast.

Rejection sensitivity follows me everywhere. It leaves a lasting imprint. Today, I still feel hurt—and I know I’ll think about this for years. I’ve already laid there numb and crying, replaying every possible scenario. Every why. Every what if.

Now, I feel guilty. Guilty for venting. Ashamed for calling a few of them out and saying they all suck. Once again, my RSD has painted me as the villain.

I wish people understood how consuming and painful rejection sensitivity dysphoria can be. It’s real. It’s not something you can simply control or logic your way out of. My reactions are instinctual—and often turn inward in self-destructive ways before I even realize what’s happening.

RSD shows up when you least expect it. But it’s also always there, waiting—ready to crack and shatter you into a million pieces.

RSD is closely tied to ADHD and autism. I have both. So, for me, it’s ever-present. A given. I just want more control over it. and I want to think clearly without being clouded by intrusive thoughts. I want space between the trigger and the spiral.

It’s hard to live this way—especially when people don’t understand you.

Have you ever reacted strongly to feeling excluded or overlooked—and later wondered if rejection sensitivity played a role in how deeply it affected you?

“Rejection sensitivity doesn’t mean I am too much. It means my nervous system has learned to brace for loss.” – Unknown

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #ADHD #ADHDInGirls #Anxiety #AutismSpectrumDisorder #Autism

Most of the time, I’ve always enjoyed being alone. I think it’s because from an early age, I often played alone. I made friends in preschool, so I had many playdates and developed more friendships over the years throughout school and such. But still, I’m an only child, so there were many times I was left to my own devices to entertain myself.

The feeling of loneliness didn’t really come until my teenage years, when I started realizing that so much solitude had made me disconnected from others. In high school, I had a hard time making friends because I was just so used to being alone, and I struggled to approach people. Eventually, I did find a close group, but it made me realize that even when I’m in the presence of others, I still feel utterly alone. I still feel this way to this day.

The thing is, I make myself hidden, unavailable, and distant. I think loneliness has always cradled me in some way. And now, I know that too much solitude can be harmful when it starts to interfere with developing friendships or relationships. I love being alone — just not actually being alone. I like having others around, even if we’re not constantly interacting.

Here are some of the lessons solitude has taught me:

-Being alone can feel safe, especially when vulnerability feels risky

-Solitude can be comforting without actually being healing

-Feeling lonely doesn’t always mean being physically alone

-Too much independence can make it harder to ask for connection

-Hiding can protect you from pain, but it can also keep you invisible

-Wanting solitude doesn’t mean you don’t want relationships

-Balance matters — alone time is healthy, isolation is not

I’m learning that solitude doesn’t have to be something I retreat into out of fear. It can be a place to rest, to reflect, and to recharge, not a permanent state of disconnection. I want to be alone without disappearing. I want presence without pressure, connection without expectation, and relationships that feel safe enough to step into.

This is still something that I’m learning how to navigate. I don’t want to abandon solitude, because it has shaped me and protected me in many ways. But I also don’t want to stay hidden inside it forever. My goal isn’t to change who I am, but to ease the distance I place between myself and others. To let solitude be a place I return from. Not a place I stay stuck in.

Where in your life are you choosing solitude — and where might you be choosing invisibility instead?

“The greatest thing in the world is to know how to belong to oneself.” — Michel de Montaigne

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #ADHD #Depression