The Devil on My Back

Dear Wrestling,

It turns out I probably have ADD. It's nice to have an explanation for why I can't seem to update things like this on even a monthly basis, I guess.

I want to talk about rejection sensitive dysphoria. This can be a mental illness on its own, but it's very often? Most often? seen alongside ADHD, especially in adults and even more so in women.

Essentially it means that when corrected or rejected in even a very normal, mild way, my brain most often responds with something like, "You know you're worst person they've ever met, right? Like they're not saying it because it's rude, but you should definitely never talk to them again, and frankly the idea that you ever talk is disgusting."

Although actually it's rarely in words. The feeling is there, but unvocalized.

When it's something I really care about--when it's writing--it's much, much worse.

I know all kinds of things about writing. I know that making mistakes is part of the process and how one learns. I know that a great proofreader and editor can make all the difference in the world for how a piece turns out. I know that practice is necessary--and lots of it, preferably daily. I know that all my favorite authors wrote things that were objectively atrocious.

And yet, when I think about showing a story--not a letter, or an article, but a story--to an audience, I want to die. I genuinely cannot think of anything more horrifying. I would rather strap a singlet around my rolls and take my first terrifying bump in front of an audience than expose my writing to the world.

It's so overwhelming I drown in it. All the normal yearning for praise and acclaim and recognition from like-minded peers is...it's like it's the horizon. No matter where I am or how far I go, it's never closer. It's never achievable.

And yet I still write. If I can't bear it for the rest of the year, then at least in November. The pep talks from authors I love, the sense of being encouraged to at least try, that if nothing else, it's a bit of practice. All these things and more help me spend one month a year really writing.

Why can't I keep it up after? Because as soon as midnight ticks over on December first, all the horror and pain breaks through the dam and swamps me again.

I think this year it might get better, though. Two years ago I didn't know rejection sensitive dysphoria was a thing. A month ago I hadn't seriously considered that I might have ADHD--I just assumed PTSD had broken my brain pretty thoroughly, and that was that.

I'm meeting with my doctor about it this week. For now though, I have hope.

Love you,
Tam