Simone Brown

Tag: mental-health

  • I Think, Therefore I Am (Weird)

    I Think, Therefore I Am (Weird)

    I am weird, and I want to be weirder. There are a lot of words you can swap for ‘weird’ if only you approach it from another angle. Whimsical. Strange. Interesting. Off-putting. Exciting. I choose weird because I have always been, primarily, weird. Even to myself, I feel weird. I look in the mirror and see two arms and two legs and a smile, but beyond that, I am a mystery. My quest to be weirder is part of a larger quest to know myself.

    I spent a lot of my childhood and adolescence feeling weird. It seemed like I always laughed too loudly or took the joke too far or put my elbows on the table in front of my grandparents. It’s the little things that make you weird, so I spent a lot of time criticizing the little things in others. Not often out loud and certainly not to their faces, but I had a consistent ‘mean girl’ inner monologue. The moments I voiced my thoughts were with others equally as concerned about seeming weird, coalescing our shared insecurity into the horrible judgment of our peers in the hopes that the group would never turn their critical eye on me. I distinctly remember moments in high school where I wish I had spoken up, had turned away, had ended the brutal tirade against weirdness I was a part of. Instead, because I knew what I was hiding, I joined in.

    I don’t blame myself for how I acted as a teenager. It sucks being 15, and it sucks even more being 15 in the wrong crowd. However, the impact of my actions was such that I undermined the individuality of those around me, and that has to be acknowledged. How can I hope to grow weirder if I am not willing to admit what weirdness once was to me? Obviously, I’m not perfect. I am extremely opinionated, yet I now try to judge based on actual harm rather than the presence of social faux pas. I cannot rewrite my adolescent perspective on weirdness (though I try), but I can reclaim the word today.

    In order to be weirder, I have to open myself up to the possibility.

    The first step to being weird is to admit you are still a little scared of being weird. Aspiring to be loved by everyone only leaves you scattered and lacking any true substance of your own. To be weird is a leap of faith. More than trusting others to accept your weirdness, you are trusting yourself that you can handle rejection. Fear should not hold you back, but it should be acknowledged. Being authentic is a skill you have to cultivate gently, gradually, and deliberately.

    It is a conscious effort on my part to not walk back my weirder moments. I’ve always been anxious about being ‘too much,’ so it feels antithetical to pursue being even ‘more.’ What carries me through is the reminder that I deserve the space I take up, especially when I fill the space with love and kindness. I also doubt I’m the first or last person to feel this way, so if others found a way to push through the fear, why can’t I?

    The second step to being weird is to be curious. Start externally; consume anecdotes simply for the love of knowledge. Ask questions to others even when you think you may know better. You never know what you might learn. Search through magazines and borrowed textbooks to encounter things you’ve never heard of before. Once it feels natural, turn that curiosity inwards. You have wants, needs, and interests. So long as you remain curious, you will never stop unravelling parts of yourself. Engage in the hobbies you have deeply, with passion for the process itself. Ask yourself ‘why’ constantly, especially when the answer feels obvious. Even in monotony, there could be something new if only you are willing to look for it.

    A short list of things I have learned recently: the human heart beats over one billion times in a lifetime, I don’t like the taste of salmon, the public library is worth a visit, tongue ties do not affect your articulation, the New York Times crossword is harder than it looks, my friends love me, I am not afraid of being alone (most of the time).

    The people I shared it with: my friends, my boyfriend, my parents, my brother, my sister, my clients, random strangers, my diary, this essay.

    The third step to being weird is to find weirder people. People who do the very things you used to cringe at. People who exude love and kindness and exuberance. People who cannot stop talking about their latest obsession. Soak up their knowledge like fresh bread dipped into homemade soup. Whether they care about whales or romance novels, the fact that they care makes them more engaging and interesting.

    The irony is not lost on me that the very people I used to dismiss are now the catalyst of my own self-improvement. Everyone is weird in their own ways, but to be weirder, I have to seek out people who are unapologetically weird or, at the very least, aware of the pressures to conform to normality. We don’t all have to be the same brand of weird; it’s enough to be weird together. I think community is strongest with authenticity and that strength is what allows self-confidence to bloom.

    My favourite moment of the last year was singing karaoke with new friends, competing on who could sing the loudest irregardless of pitch. I’m sure we seemed (and sounded) weird looking in from the outside, but I don’t want to be on the outside looking in. It meant immeasurably more to me to be off-key and happy than rehearsed and aloof.

    The fourth step to being weird is to embrace being uncomfortable. Perhaps you learn something from your search for knowledge that challenges your worldview. That’s uncomfortable. Don’t shy away from the implications of this new knowledge; bask in that discomfort passes until it passes (which it will (you’ll still be weird)). Discomfort can also arise in your relationships. Even with close friends and family, sometimes your weirdness will still be exactly that: weird. In those moments, you have to appreciate that misalignment without taking it to heart. Trust that the people who love you will accept inconsequential awkward moments with open arms and also call you out when you’re being too flagrant.

    The point of my writing is never to shame someone for being too ‘normal’ (as if that exists) or demand someone be a manic-pixie-dream-girl caricature, but to encourage social change towards acceptance of the self and others. If something feels inauthentic, it’s not weird, it’s wrong. Not every facet of your being has to resist the status quo for you to be weird in your own right. Weirdness is just a word. I do not care if you are weird like me, weird like someone else, or don’t consider yourself weird at all.

    Still, I hope you’re a little weirder than you were yesterday.

  • It Won’t Kill You (Until It Does)

    It Won’t Kill You (Until It Does)

    Tip: Writing about being 19 might make you feel 19, but you’re still 24.

    I’ve been holding off on talking about my eating disorder for the past few years. I’m nearing 7 years in recovery. Why haven’t I passed the time writing essay after essay about how brave I am for overcoming the most deadly mental illness in the world? Especially considering how freely I will voice my opinion on other matters and how much admiration I hold for others fighting these same battles.

    Primarily, it’s because I don’t really subscribe to the narrative that I’m powerful and inspiring for managing my mental health, nor do I think it gives me some magical insight that requires others to pay attention to me. Nothing I have to say about eating disorders is profound or unique; I am one of 30 million women who will struggle with an eating disorder in their life.

    I also struggle to write about it because I used to read about it. A lot. If you weren’t around for Tumblr’s golden age, you might have missed out on the very insidious content of models contorted into humiliating poses with a Picsart grunge filter smashed on top. To the untrained eye, it’s just weird university students testing out a new hobby. To me, though, it meant everything. I worshipped these women as my idols; their bodies were works of art I was dedicating my life to replicating with shaky hands.

    Even once I started therapy, I would scour recovery content, looking for any “trade secrets” these people accidentally let slip. You told me you did X to show how ridiculous you were acting back then, but now all I can think of is how I should try X to see if it works. Even if the content was a 10-minute video of a woman explaining exactly how her eating disorder ruined her life, all I heard was “blah blah THIS IS MY WEIGHT blah blah BIG/SMALL NUMBERS blah blah LOOK AT MY BODY.”

    Video after video, post after post, book after book; if I just read the right inspirational quote, I would surely find the strength to battle my inner demons, right? I tricked myself into believing that I was doing something good by constantly, incessantly consuming media about eating disorders. I don’t write about eating disorders because I know all too well that even the most well-meaning message is going to be corrupted in the eyes of someone’s eating disorder.

    There’s one more reason why I don’t write about eating disorders, and it’s a doozy. Some of the worst moments of my life happened because I had an eating disorder. Not all of them, but enough that I get uncomfortable addressing my past behaviours and the kinds of thoughts that arose as a result of my severe mental illness. I did and said some truly heinous things in the name of my eating disorder, and I feel a lot of shame about them. It feels awkward admitting that not only did I have an eating disorder, but I was kind of a shitty person because of my eating disorder.

    For me, there’s a delicate balance between acknowledging my mistakes and self-flagellation; just like there’s a delicate balance between excusing shitty behaviour and forgiveness. When you have an eating disorder, your brain is literally starving itself back into a child-like state. What little energy you have gets diverted from those valuable skills of critical thinking and logic into the basic human functions. This leads to a lot of poor decisions and vulnerability, which affects everyone who is watching in horror as you drop a nuke on your life. As I’ve already said, I won’t be divulging the details of my eating disorder to anyone except a licensed therapist, but trust me that they happened.

    Now for the twist: Yes, I don’t want to talk about my eating disorder, and yet I am writing this today. Eating disorders are inherently contradictory, and I guess so am I. At least I’m self-aware, right? My current position (with no promises I won’t change my mind tomorrow) is that even if I have my reservations, there is something serious happening that needs to be addressed.

    Thanks to extensive therapy, I am trained to recognize the patterns that crop up right before my eating disorder makes its grand entrance. It concerns me that what was once inside my head is being mirrored in the world around me. There’s been an uptick in discourse surrounding eating disorders, at least for someone with their finger on the pulse (perhaps you never really move on?). It feels like a resurrection of a truly dark cultural movement that will inevitably steal the youth of millions of girls, if not their lives. What used to be called ‘coke-skinny’ is now being called ‘ozempic-skinny’, but it’s all the same cancer. We are watching celebrities shrink at alarming rates, our medical system is collapsing, and food costs are rising. Blink, and you miss it, but suddenly we are living in one of those self-sufficient terrariums with eating disorders breeding like mold. How are we supposed to take care of ourselves in these conditions?

    Still, I do. I begrudgingly do the work every day to make sure I am never in the position to lose myself so completely to my mental illness again. I write myself love letters on post-it notes and stick them around my room when I’m feeling self-critical. I repeat the mantras gifted to me by wiser women about taking up the space I deserve and never accepting less than “enough”. I turn dinner time into celebrations of friendship and love. I act on my hunger: for opportunities, for knowledge, for nachos, for even better days.

    I won’t pretend I’m perfect to sell the dream of “recovery”. I will promise that life gets a little easier on the exact day that choosing to get better isn’t even a choice anymore, it’s the only option.

    The brutal, honest truth is that I don’t have any kind of solution right now. I’m treading water just like everyone else, amidst diet pills and the press junket for Wicked. Still, I feel better in my body than I ever have before because of those first steps I took 7 years ago. Maybe someday I’ll have something more profound or inspiring to say about my experience having an eating disorder. For right now, all I really care about is being a voice on the side of getting better.

    If I haven’t made it explicit enough, eating disorders will ruin your life. You will not get relief by hurting yourself. When you brush fingertips against death, you will only want to grab it with both hands. You need to get better. You need to want to get better. You need to choose to get better. If you don’t choose it today, there will be fewer tomorrows.

    Tip: Having an eating disorder won’t kill you. Until it does.

  • You’re not “neurospicy” Jessica, you’re disabled.

    You’re not “neurospicy” Jessica, you’re disabled.

    I’m writing to a non-existent Autistic woman named Jessica. I came across her writing piece today describing the experience of being a late-diagnosed Autistic woman. I am always looking for a deeper connection to the label I feel defined by, so, of course, I was elated. Almost immediately, though, I read the catchline: “for my neurospicy girls!”

    Gag me.

    I know Jessica meant no harm, just like everyone else who uses the term “neurospicy.” She probably thinks she’s raising awareness or lightening the mood, but she’s just making my eyes roll. I don’t enjoy sharing my label with people who use terms like “neurospicy.” I just don’t. It’s not funny to be Autistic, and my brain isn’t “spicy;” I’m disabled.

    “Whoa whoa! Why so serious?” You say, “disabled is a strong word.” Well, let’s look at that a little closer.

    There are two models to consider when defining a disability. The traditional medical model defines disability as some impairment that prevents someone from fully engaging in society. The social model of disability, in contrast, defines disability as differences that, because of society’s foundational prejudices, prevent someone from fully engaging in traditional daily life. I personally fall somewhere in the middle; disability is something that fundamentally alters the way you interact with the world, but those interactions are further altered by the social structures in place.

    Autism is, therefore, a disability for me. It influences how I work, how I study, how I spend my time, how I take care of myself, how I make friends, and how I date. A lot of these adaptations are invisible to others, but that doesn’t make them any less real to me. However, that invisibility makes it harder for people to conceptualize my Autism as a disability. I don’t claim that label on behalf of anybody else who is Autistic, but I do encourage you to think critically about why Autism being a disability, in cases such as mine, is an uncomfortable conclusion. I find that a lot of people like to forget I’m Autistic until it’s convenient for them or their needs. Would you rather I only embrace the “easy” parts of being Autistic? Would you like to have me as an inspiration, as a wallflower, as a mirrorball, as an advocate, and forget the rest of me? No. I have carved space with my bare hands, and I will not apologize for the dirt under my nails.

    Now that that’s out of the way, let’s address Jessica’s TikTok-ification of Autism.

    It’s weirdly humiliating. Autism has become a new punch line that strikes me square in the chest each time. An acquaintance uses Autistic as an adjective for someone who is “a little weird,” and all my friends turn to me, like they’re waiting to see how they should react, like the weight of Autism representation rests squarely on my shoulders. If I protest, if I try to explain, my words are minuscule in comparison to the number of memes they have seen that contradict me. It’s partly my fault. When someone says something hurtful unintentionally, I try to brush it off and move on. I like to give the benefit of the doubt that they are parroting the things they have heard before. I don’t stand up for myself nearly as often as I should. Instead, I pretend I don’t hear while my heart breaks inside. It’s also partly a broader problem that is a modern continuation of ableism; completely out of my hands and entirely too complex to unravel in less than a dissertation.

    Usually, I find the assimilation of online language into daily conversation to be a fascinating result of the fluidity of language and the strength of internet culture. We are amazing, adaptable creatures constantly seeking new ways to identify with each other, and language is a perfect tool to do so. In this case, though, the language being used to describe Autism is actively harmful not only to me but also to the whole community.

    There are a couple of reasons I hate these internet terms slung around to describe Autism.

    It promotes the stigma surrounding Autism and Autistic experiences by making people uncomfortable using real terms and discussing real elements of Autism.

    The more people use words like “neurospicy,” the less people are comfortable with the word Autism itself. The less comfortable people are with the word Autism, the less they’re willing to interact with Autism and, therefore, Autistic people. This cycle leads to disinterest at best, disgust at worst, and so the stigma against Autism grows.

    When I hear the word “neurospicy,” the first thing I think of is the overwhelming distress of a meltdown. When I meltdown, I lose control of my ability to speak, I cry uncontrollably, and I hyperventilate. Before I learned how to redirect my emotions, I used to hit myself (and sometimes I still want to) when I got overwhelmed. I have been in therapy since I was 9 years old and medicated since I was 16 years old to address my emotional regulation difficulties. That’s not “spicy,” that’s painful and real. Being afraid to talk about the ugly truths of Autism can only be stigmatizing.

    It reduces the reality of my diagnosis, my identity, and my lived experiences to a childish trend.

    Oftentimes, when people are using terms like “neurospicy,” they are, purposefully or inadvertently, presenting their audience with a version of Autism that is childish and simplistic. When something becomes trendy, it loses a lot of credibility. Even more so when that trend actively competes with the medical and social realities of a diagnosis. People have begun to treat the diagnosis of Autism as something you can opt into, meaning it should be just as easy, in their eyes, to opt out. People who don’t fit the social mould are seen as making a conscious choice to overstay their welcome and are treated as such.

    My experience being Autistic is unique. Many elements of my life shock non-Autistic people who are accustomed to the narrow definition presented on social media. I’m not alone; every Autistic person lives a life that stretches beyond what non-Autistic people think they can be. Stereotypes are claustrophobic, and pushing the boundaries of those stereotypes is exhausting. Instead of devoting energy to improving my quality of life, that same energy now flows into convincing people that I really am Autistic, despite what stereotypes would have you believe. “Neurospicy” is acceptable because stereotypes thrive, and stereotypes are reinforced because we promote them with terms like neurospicy. What a vicious cycle to contribute to.

    Look, I’m not the language police. You want to keep making videos and blog posts about “being a neurospicy person?” Fine. Do what you think raises awareness or lightens the mood or whatever. I’m also not saying there isn’t a space for comedy in being Autistic. I have heard some downright hilarious jokes made by and about Autistic people, but the funniest ones never punch down. What is there to laugh about in the fact that your audience is uncomfortable with the word Autistic?

    I’m very privileged to be a well-spoken, low-support needs Autistic person. I would be remiss if I didn’t use that privilege to tell you that your constant couching of Autism is only hurting how (not) seriously we are taken by non-Autistic people. The words we choose matter, especially when we have the weight of Autistic people who cannot as easily self-advocate on our shoulders.

    For the love of God, just say Autistic Jessica. You’d have no problem doing it as a punchline anyway.

  • What Could Be More Selfish Than That?

    What Could Be More Selfish Than That?

    “Selfish”: (of a person, action, or motive) lacking consideration for other people.

    Autistic people rarely get to be selfish.

    The existence of “accommodations” might lead you to believe that, actually, Autistic people are frequently selfish. After all, they are the ones asking the non-Autistic population to adjust their behaviours, right? However, consider how much and how often those same Autistic people are really the ones accommodating others. We are constantly masking ourselves to be more palatable. It’s not even asked of us; it’s assumed. We are also the ones living with the consequences of being unselfish, having a meltdown in the bathroom stall as quietly as possible before returning to the group.

    I can’t remember the last time I, as an Autistic person, unapologetically took up as much space as I needed. What I can remember is the last time I disassociated in public to cope with the overwhelming environment my friends chose as our hangout spot. We don’t consider driving a friend to the airport or bringing a coworker coffee a burden; we consider it a part of building a thriving community. So why is it that when suddenly it’s an Autistic person asking for something, it is an “accommodation?”

    Let’s look at an example in the form of “disclosing” autism. When I introduce myself to someone new, it usually comes up (as naturally as I can manage) that I’m Autistic. That’s because it is socially MY responsibility to inform others about my disability and MY responsibility to seek out accommodations. Consider that no one has to disclose they don’t like cold weather; they simply do what is best for themselves (in this case, wearing a jacket), and everyone accepts it. Know someone long enough and they don’t think twice about offering to let you borrow a pair of mittens when it snows. Someone with a peanut allergy isn’t asking for accommodations by choosing the nut-free meal at a restaurant; they’re just prioritizing their health and well-being.

    Disclosure is risky for Autistic people because of this lens of “selfishness” through which we view “accommodations.” If you really believe that Autistic people are protected in non-Autistic communities, then you don’t speak with enough Autistic people. The discrimination associated with Autism will compound when I disclose, all for the meagre reward of consideration.

    Autistic advocacy is another example. Too often, non-Autistic people will stretch the boundaries of what little advocacy space Autism receives to fit themselves in. In doing so, they are stepping on the toes of actual Autistic people. Caregivers are the ones expected to speak up because no one cares when the actual Autistic person wants or needs something. This means that, no matter how well-intentioned, caregivers default to the voice that advocates rather than the ear that listens. Not only is this infantilizing and even humiliating, but it also reinforces the abnormality of Autistic people speaking up and asking for things themselves.

    Every once in a while, someone will speak about “ways you can support your Autistic father, mother, child, partner, friend,” and everyone will applaud them for their stellar perspective on how ANOTHER person’s lived experience might affect them. Accommodations are always framed as the burden that one must bear in loving an Autistic person. Rather than tell them to kick rocks, Autistic people have to be graceful and delicate in their response. “Love this! Thank you for speaking up :)” We say as we watch the algorithm send their blog post into the spotlight while our own words stay stuck in the shadows. What becomes of our raw, human experiences is a watered-down, motivational anecdote about how we’re all in this together. It’s such a rare opportunity that we don’t want to scare away the few people trying to help. Still, it’s hard not to feel frustrated when I am once again smiling and nodding along to a presentation on neurodiversity that ends with the astounding revelation that Autistic people are human and therefore have human needs.

    A stereotype of Autism is that we lack empathy. I can’t speak for every Autistic person, but at least for myself, I sometimes feel I have too much empathy. I am caught up in how my existence, in its most natural form, might be inconveniencing or uncomfortable for others. Am I stimming too loudly? Am I moving in a distracting way? Do I seem rude if I put on my headphones? Should I laugh at the joke even if I don’t get it? I care more about how other people feel than I do about myself, and that often gets me into sticky situations. There are consequences to being selfless for Autistic people. Masking is exhausting, advocating is divisive, and disclosing can be dangerous. I say yes to things I want to say no to, and I don’t implement lifestyle changes that would genuinely relax and comfort me. It’s not that I lack empathy; it’s that I have a different style of communication, and therefore, my empathy is expressed differently.

    Non-Autistic people are privileged and, oftentimes, ignorant of that privilege. While I am counting the seconds of eye contact and thinking about where I’ve placed my hands in relation to their hands, they are solely invested in the act of building community on their terms. The majority of non-Autistic people do not adapt their behaviours or their environment to fit the needs of Autistic conversation partners, because they never consider that those needs might differ from their own. What can be more selfish than that?

    I think Autistic people should be as selfish as they want to be. They live in a world that isn’t built for them (if you subscribe to the social model of disability), and their attempts to self-advocate, even in minute ways, get labelled as “demands” or “adaptations” rather than as a natural variety in behaviour that exists among humans. Selfishness is a part of building community; it gives us the means to take care of ourselves. Without being selfish, how could we express and differentiate ourselves? How would we know who we love and who we tolerate? Everyone, not just Autistic people, deserves consideration from time to time. It is what keeps us safe, happy, and comfortable. And everyone, including Autistic people, deserves that for consideration not to be a big deal.

  • ‘Madness’, Medical Misogyny and Misdiagnoses: The Woes of the Chronically Ill Woman

    ‘Madness’, Medical Misogyny and Misdiagnoses: The Woes of the Chronically Ill Woman

    During my childhood, I can remember doctors dismissing my mother every time she brought up something about my health that was worrying her. It’s just growing pains. Kids hurt themselves all the time. She needs to get out more. It’s a bad cold. One doctor even suggested my hands’ recent malfunctions were because of my parents’ divorce (that happened when I was six)!

    In the eyes of my doctors, I went from an accident-prone kid to a mentally-ill teenager.

    When I was old enough to go to my appointments on my own, my mother resisted it. She was never the kind of mother to stop me from exploring my independence, so her diligence about the doctor’s office seemed weirdly out of character. ‘You know what you’re going to say, right? Don’t leave until they listen to you. Repeat exactly what you told me. Don’t take no for an answer. Trust what you are feeling and trust your body.’ I thought she was a hypochondriac, and so did my family doctor.

    They were relieved to deal with me instead of her. I would smile and nod along with whatever they said without ever asking questions. I didn’t understand what my mother had been trying to teach me. I let a lot of professionals tell me I was perfectly healthy even though I was struggling because I trusted them to know my body best. I got used to thinking, ‘that’s weird’, and going about my day in situations where most people would rush to a walk-in clinic.

    It only got worse as I aged. In the eyes of my doctors, I went from an accident-prone kid to a mentally-ill teenager. Every illness, pain and problem could be chalked up to the burden of puberty and a turbulent social life. When I complained about fatigue and a lack of sleep, I got lectured on bad sleep hygiene, but no one ever asked why a sixteen-year-old could sleep from 10 pm to 3 pm without stirring. Each month I wondered if I would mistake my appendix bursting for cramps because I was told periods hurt for everyone. My therapist suggested I try meditating and deep breathing, but I still ended every day feeling like I had been hit by a truck.

    Frustration bubbled in me from sixteen to nineteen years old. The doctors I saw didn’t see anything wrong with me. Every test came back normal. Eventually, they stopped listening to my symptoms altogether. I got a strong muscle relaxer to target my headaches and reboot my sleep schedule, and every new pain was solved by upping my dosage and drinking more water.

    After I aged out of my paediatric office, I resorted to going to walk-ins and demanding someone pay attention to me, damn it. After years of overworking my liver without any improvement, I weaned myself off my medication and started journaling the ebbs and flows of my body. For nearly two years, I’ve been bouncing from doctor to doctor. All the while, my body is breaking down even more.

    The fight is exhausting, but what makes it worse is that no one believes me. It’s the thing my mother wanted to hide from me, though she couldn’t make the world change overnight. I am graced with labels like ‘hysterical,’ ‘stressed,’ ‘mentally ill,’ and ‘sensitive,’ never to be heard and never to be believed.

    The fastest way to get more tests was to take up space in these offices that didn’t want me, plant my feet, and refuse to leave until someone gave me the courtesy of a reference. Like my mother had hoped, I learned to stand up for myself. But neither of us expected how little it would end up mattering. I was denied my medical records, had my appointments cancelled, placed on endless holds, hung up on, and abandoned by the places meant to give me answers.

    She gave me her spirit and her stubbornness – I used them every day.

    Through it all, my mother held my hand and rubbed my back. She told me I was strong, that this moment would pass; things would hurt less tomorrow. She drove me to doctor’s appointments and hugged me while I broke down in parking lots out of frustration. When I begged her to let me give up, she reminded me how much more fight I had in me. She gave me her spirit and her stubbornness – I used them every day.

    Sometimes we reminisce about all the places we have been and the things we have tried in order to fix my broken body. We can laugh at the ridiculously sexist things I have been told and the nonsensical diagnoses doctors have given me to usher me out the door faster. Secretly though, I know it hurts her to see how much I’m hurting. She calls me a piece of herself that she happily gave away; she feels all my pain as if it were her own.

    We both blame ourselves for the doctors of my youth and the failures of our medical system. Had she dragged along my father, taken up more space, demanded more things, cried, screamed, and sat on the floor of my doctor’s office, maybe I wouldn’t be the one doing these things today. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t have mattered either way.

    We are women, I am chronically ill, and no amount of advocacy or motherly protection could have saved me.

    Originally published on Heroica Women.

  • Confessions of a Recovering Busy Girl

    Confessions of a Recovering Busy Girl

    Anyone who spends an extended period of time talking to me knows I’m a “busy girl.” It’s built into my identity at this point, rushing from one thing to the next or even juggling multiple things at once. Ask my roommate, and they’ll tell you it’s not unusual to see me typing away on my laptop at 11 PM on a Tuesday. It’s just who I am. 

    For the longest time, I took pride in being unreasonably, insanely, intensely busy. I had 5 categories on my Google calendar, colour-coded, and making a rainbow of my day from when I wake up well into the night. I used Notion like a prayer book, checking it religiously at the crossroads of any free time. If my day looked too empty, leaving me too much space for rumination (my Achilles heel), I rushed forward into a new to-do list or project to take up my time. It was a lot. 

    It’s not like I was inventing useless tasks either, my life does lend itself to a certain calibre of “busy.” I worked throughout my undergraduate (and now graduate) degree, part-time during the school semesters and full-time in the summers. I was Co-President of a club. I submitted freelance writing to various publication groups. I took a full course load and always submitted my assignments on time. I had a blossoming group of friends I would see in any free time I managed to squeeze in. I hosted private tutoring sessions as a side gig. I went on dates occasionally, sponsored by a boyfriend who begged to have my full attention for just one hour. No two tasks demanded the same things of me either; I had to be a completely different person hour to hour, day to day. Time off felt like a death sentence. My LinkedIn had never looked so exciting. 

    I wasn’t simply “busy,” I was running.

    Sometimes I would break down, crying on the floor of my living room and proclaiming I was tired of being a self-identified “busy girl.” It’s exhausting feeling like you’re a hamster running on a wheel, especially when you never take breaks. Yet, at the end of every evening of tears, I would wipe my face, open my laptop, and get started on the next thing. In a particularly busy period of my life, I set a timer for 30 minutes when I needed to cry, the alarm signalling the end of my allotted “feelings” time.

    Right now you’re probably thinking “holy shit.” Yeah, you and everyone else in my life. On one hand, it’s great to feel productive, you get to try so many new things and develop a robust skillset that looks great on your resume. On the other hand, it’s certainly not healthy to be so overtaken by productivity that you sacrifice your ability to relax. It caught up with me slowly, then all at once. My body started breaking down; I couldn’t sleep and barely ate (but that’s another story). I fell asleep in public, passing out from pure exhaustion at my desk.

    What took me 22 years and many, many therapy sessions to realize was that I wasn’t simply “busy,” I was running. Running away from my own mind. Running towards the next challenge. Running on the spot just because I didn’t know how to stop. Distraction is the default coping mechanism for a lot of people, mostly because it actually works if you don’t care about anything except the distractions. Underneath it all, though, I wanted to care about other things. I saw people laughing in public and craved to be in on the joke. I browsed library shelves, dreaming of a day when I read a silly book and I learned nothing profound. I called my mom to tell her this was really, truly the week where I took a day off. Wanting to care was the catalyst for the biggest, most productive thing I’ve ever done: nothing. I did it for an hour, then three hours, then a day. It sucked, then it didn’t, until it was actually pretty nice. “Nothing” is now an option when I’m choosing what to do in my free time. 

    I’m still busy, probably too much so. My ‘Extra Type A’ personality simply couldn’t let me be anything else. I still find myself opening my laptop to squeeze in 30 minutes of work on Tuesdays at 11 PM. I still have a (very) in-depth Notion to keep track of my life. Except now I’m trying to make my busyness more purposeful. Before, my anxiety was the driving force behind all my work. Now, that anxiety is still present, but I’m not gonna let it keep me on the hamster wheel full-time. I am learning that there is a balance inherent to productivity. I schedule in more time with friends, more time to write, more time to read, and even some time where I have no expectations at all. I take breaks while I’m working; I remember to get up and walk around, I remember to eat, to drink water, to smile. 

    I’ve been running for so long I have since forgotten where I set my first goal post.

    It’s scary, I won’t lie. I’ve never had this much free time before, and most of the time I don’t even know what to do with it. Still, I think it’s important to recognize how important relaxation is. My body, my mind both deserve rest. When you spend years straight on the go, you enter a perpetual fight or flight that interferes with your ability to enjoy life. How are you supposed to appreciate the feeling of fresh, warm bread or notice the first buds of spring if your ongoing monologue is “I just have to get this next thing done”?

    I also know I’m not the only “busy girl” out there. If you’ve ever caught yourself restarting your Pomodoro without taking that 5-minute break, you might be a busy girl too. It’s hard not to be in a world that seems to be perpetually demanding more, with numerous bids for your attention at every turn, but just because the world is going fast doesn’t mean you need to. There is a benefit in slowing down. Take the time to appreciate doing nothing, and maybe it’ll turn into something. I’m writing this much for myself as for someone else— this is just one big bid for accountability. Maybe if I transform my thoughts into writing and send them out into the ether, I’ll feel a responsibility towards what I’ve noted down. I’ve been running for so long, I have since forgotten where I set my first goal post, so does it matter if I reach the next one? As much as I find relaxation a chore, I can hope it’ll get easier with time and I’ll be able to reap the benefits of all this discomfort. 

    I don’t want to run anymore, I want to live.