Too Many Letters

1. Introduction

	I believe with vigor that I lived a healthy, loving, and supportive childhood. I never had problems getting along with friends and family. I was given the best of what life had to offer, from economic security to an enmeshed family home life.  However, it became apparent early on that I struggled when it came to certain aspects of being productive in society. This arose most notably, at first, as trouble getting homework done in school. I remember at eight years old laying under my bed with a flashlight, trying desperately to complete my assignments an hour before it was time to wake up. As early as first grade, I began to realize that I got in trouble more often than other kids for talking too much in class or making jokes during lectures. My earliest conclusion was that I was, “one of the bad kids,” that teachers and parents disliked. 

	As the years passed, an ever-growing and extensive list of unusual and problematic behaviors presented themselves in my life. Almost all of them were in regards to my functioning in school and work. Being blessed with caring and able parents, I was sent to see a therapist, and later a psychiatrist. This began my arduous and onerous journey into the world of mental illness and mental health. Now, at thirty-three years old, after decades of self-torment and failures, I have a staggeringly in-depth understanding of my mental health diagnoses. This sort of self-knowledge doesn't always correlate to improved mental health, however, and there are always steps backwards for every successful step forward.

The list of my diagnoses breaks down into:
	1. Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder (ADD/ADHD)
	2. Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD)
	3. Major Depressive Disorder (MDD)
	4.  Insomnia, measured using the Insomnia Severity Index (ISI)
	5. Substance Abuse Disorder (SAD)

	With just a glance at this array of abbreviations, it's easy to see that I live with Too Many Letters. 

	Set forth is a journey exploring some of the ways my neurodivergent brain has affected my experiences and struggles to live a productive and happy life. I intend to use the mediums of prose, poetry, photography, and other audio/visual art as best I can to take you down an intimate path of what it's like to be not-normal. Or, as it were, to have too many letters.

2. ADD/ADHD Combined Type

	My ADHD is a room with a window and no lights. On clear, bright days, I can see inside and outside the room without a problem. I have everything I need to survive and be successful.
	At night and on cloudy days, it can be impossible to make out anything around me- inside or outside. I often stub my toes on my furniture, unable to see where their edges start. 
	Sometimes, with no warning, great streaks of lightning will shine through my window, illuminating the room around me. These sporadic bursts of light last for unreliably random lengths of time. Sometimes they lasts mere seconds, and other times they seem to last for days straight. Never certain of when I'll be able to see clearly again, I have no choice but to drop everything and start working instantly when any source of light appears. 
	There is no calendar, clock, or marker to count the hours or months. Seasons confuse me as days creep longer and shorter, like every day I wake is a new shift into or out of an arbitrary daylight savings time. People talk about the passing of minutes, into weeks, and into years. I only know when there's enough light to see. 
	Outside my window, I see people with flashlights moving about their planned lives, getting their cute “to-dos” all checked off, while inside my room, it's often too dark to see my pencil. I get mail and phone calls from friends talking about activities and events I remember hearing about but was unaware had already happened. The only constant truth I can discern is that I'm never getting my goals done. This plays out in all sorts of frustrated, angry, jealous fits about how “everyone else” is doing it right. It's an overall exhausting and isolating experience, always closed off from other people's passage of time.
	There's something funny that happens pretty regularly in my ADHD room. It can be a perfectly bright day outside, the closed space inside my room lit evenly, but as I begin to work on my tasks at hand, the sunlight will reflect blindingly off an object in the corner of my room. The image burned into my eyes, I blink a couple of times to find it suddenly dark all around me. My room is pitch black except for the radiance of that reflecting object. With nowhere else to go and nothing else to do, I examine it curiously. Then time passes. Sometimes minutes. Sometimes days. All I know is someone else is telling me I've fallen behind and have failed to get my work done. With no control over this cycle, every task brings bitter resentment to my mind. Endless days and nights spent internally yelling at myself to get things done, never in control of the means to act.
	The only time I ever seem to be able to find my own candle and match is at the end of one of these self-criticizing cycles, when what may have been months of potential work time runs out, and the deadline for this important task is all but over. Then, and only then, am I seemingly able to eke out some source of self-lighting. It's a frantic race to see in the dark, pushing just hard enough to finish the bare minimum.
	I've only ever known life to function this way; I've never experienced what neurotypicals consider "normal."

3. Major Depression Disorder (MDD)

	My depression is a blindfold and handcuffs locked to a sturdy metal bar. It's a heavy adhesive, sticking me wherever I stand. I am a captive prisoner long forgotten in a sunken ship at the bottom of the ocean. My every attempt to struggle free from my restraints is met with failure, forever keeping me drowning under the pressurized depths of salt water. A freezing cold silence expands into the pitch void around me that proves too thick to shout through. All seems stagnant with the clock's every tick, minutes lasting hours and years lasting mere moments. Nothing appears important save finding another gasp of air in the submerged hallways of this wooden vessel. Desperate for something – anything – to free me from the iron shackles of depression's cruel imprisonment.
	Breathing deep from stale, oxygen-starved waters in the mirky abyss around me, I feel as though death has already come across my body and deemed it unfit for afterlife. Instead, I am condemned to waste away for eternity, conscious of every heartbeat that was schedule to stop years ago. Far from six feet under, I rot miles deep in the Pacific where the faint echoes of loved ones whisper their support from above. Even if I were able to break loose of my bindings for some time, the apathetic ship and ocean would still confine me in a prison out of reach of sunlight and everyone's sweet words.
	So in a muffled haze of deaf blindness, my body lets go and I begin to listen to the stories in my mind. They serenade me with catchy loops that sing, “You're absolutely worthless and disgusting. You don't deserve the love wasted on your pathetic life. Give up already, you're already dead inside.” Before I know it, I'm tapping my toes to the rhythm of these self-invalidating songs, bopping my head up and down to the hollow crescendos and beat drops. The tunes reverberate out endlessly in the sound-scape of my brain.
	Some few centuries later, a break-through discovery is found on the ocean floor- an in tact, perfectly preserved frozen body of a man that sank with his ship years ago. To scientist's blatant surprise, the man awoke very much alive, after thawing out in warmer temperatures. Historians and anthropologists make very little progress communicating with the man, as he doesn't speak any modern languages and has no recollection of the time he spent frozen alive. The best they can conclude is that the centuries-old man wasn't aware of the the passing of time for any length longer than a few minutes at a time. They speculate it must have been like living a single moment of horror for an eternity.

4. Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD)

A track that viscerally embodies my general anxiety disorder is “Stress” by Justice. I strongly urge you to listen to the song below while reading the story about my anxiety. (If you have to, click “Listen in Browser” to hear the song).

	A young, brown-haired twenty-something year old boarded his usual bus on his way back from work. Glancing around, he noticed almost all the seats were completely occupied by the same tired souls going about their daily routines. The bus doors hissed closed and the vehicle lurched forward into motion. He carefully approached the nearest open seat available and sat down. After adjusting into the uncomfortably hard plastic seat, he looked over at the young woman beside him. She had cute, curly red hair and wore a floral dress that matched the season nicely. When their eyes met, the man quickly blurted out,
	“Hi. I'm Reed, you know, like a book?”
	Blushing slightly, the woman replied, “My name is Paige.” She smiled, “Me too... like a book.”
	Reed felt self-conscious in that moment. Had he forgotten to put on deodorant this morning? He double checked that he had indeed gotten onto the correct bus, and attempted to relax. A short time passed and Reed realized he didn't recognize where they were driving. The street signs were either too blurry or reflecting too much light to be able to read. Sweat dripped from his upper lip as he turned to ask Paige if she knew where they were. Before any sound exited his mouth, Reed jumped back in surprise to find a homely black-haired goth girl sitting beside him. Flabbergasted, Reed clumsily asked,
	“Excuse me, do you know how far the bus has gone? I get off on the fifth exit.”
	Blinking kindly, Paige replied, “It's only been two stops since you got on. We should make it to your stop in about fifteen minutes.”
	Reed glanced down at his watch, noticing the time was way off. He remembered leaving work at six o'clock, but the hands clearly pointed to three twenty-two. The battery must have died earlier today, he thought to himself. No, that can't be right. I specifically remember checking my watch at six fifteen before boarding the bus... something's not right.
	He tapped the glass face of his watch a couple times, as if this would set the gears back in motion. Out of the corner of his eye, Reed noticed something unusual on the crotch of his pants. He had left his fly unzipped. Jesus! It must have been like this since lunch break. He cursed and zipped up his pants, turning red with embarrassment. He shot a look over towards Paige to see if she had noticed his cringe worthy mistake. When his sight met the edges of her face, Reed was taken aback to now see an elderly African American had replaced the younger woman from before.
	“I'm sorry,” Reed mumbled. “Have I introduced myself yet?” The woman returned his gaze slowly before answering,
	“Yes, of course, Reed. We're like a book, remember?”
	“Right. Of course. I guess I'm just feeling confused.” Perplexed by her unexpected response, Reed uncomfortably looked outside the air plane window. Something is terribly wrong, but I can't figure out what it is. It felt almost as if he were sitting six and a half inches behind his own body, that he had forgotten his keys at the office, that someone had drugged him without his knowing. His sweat had spread to the back of his neck now, where he noticed an aching sensation from holding his muscles too tightly.
	Cool wind caressed his beard as he turned away from the cruise boat's edge and awkwardly retrieved a dinner plate of lobster rolls from the gorgeous waitress in the crimson dress. Reed turned back to Paige, attempting to regain his bearings. The red headed cutie looked back at him. Her lips parted as she whispered, “Are you dreaming?”
	As the sun dawned over the horizon, Reed couldn't make sense of any part of this ordeal.
	“Something is dreadfully wrong,” he said aloud as he patted his pockets for his phone and wallet. The low churning sound of the engine had long since morphed into a foul, dark buzzing of flies whizzing past his ears. He had ridden this exact bus every day for two years and never experienced a night like tonight.
	It was then that Reed realized nothing felt familiar to him. The smells and sights of his daily bus ride were completely off. Even the chattering of those around him sounded like foreign languages.  The air surrounding him seemed charged with static electricity, making his hair raise up. His vision blurred uselessly as a guttural, mangled voice threatened to slit his throat if he changed the rhythm of his breathing by a single millisecond.
	“What?!” Reed exclaimed loudly in a horrified panic, echoing his voice around the confines of the bus.
	“Uhm, I said this is your bus stop,” explained the freckled, red-headed girl sitting beside him. “Have a good night, it was nice to meet you!” Paige smiled genuinely at him.
	As Reed's senses came back to him on the bus that reeked of gasoline, he stood up and went to exit out the door. Just then, he missed a step getting down and fell forward to land on his face. Convinced that he had tripped over his shoe laces, he stumbled up onto his knees and attempted to fix them. 
	“Wait, these shoes don't have any laces.”

6. Insomnia

		My insomnia is a long-standing R.S.V.P. to an important and intimate event that was cancelled behind my back. Months of tedious preparation put into a party everyone else ditched at the last minute. Money, time, excitement, and emotional investment cashed out to find myself standing alone in the dark, confetti strewn on the ground, and all the balloons popped. Somehow, everyone else is subscribed to a secret mailing list where whispered messages are exchanged about when to abandon Drew. I'm always blind to the notice that says business hours are cut short tonight. 
	As other people drift off to sleepy states of withdrawn serenity, I'm cut-off mid-sentence in the moment of my energetic climax. One moment, the world is filled with loud music and flashing lights only to blink away to a dark, somber silence. My friends and family suddenly disappear to slumber's quiet grip and I'm left alone in a shadowy, still hollowness. The dim flickering of an abandoned television screen screeching statically after all the house were shut off. In an instant, all the inertia of the day's bustling flow ceases suddenly to leave me with whiplash. Now, the ambient hum of the air conditioner seems louder and the air on my skin feels cooler than before.
	After a necessary period of time for the reality of my solitude to settle in, I reluctantly turn to my pillow, objecting bitterly to the nonconsensual imposition of rest. Ironically, it feels like waking up naked in an unfamiliar apartment building surrounded by strangers. Confused and embarrassed, I slink away silently from the shameful scene.
	I find a spot on the ground and sprawl out as comfortably as I can manage, allowing my eyes to close and my body to relax. Seconds bleed into hours, and my thoughts scream louder every minute, “Just go to sleep already!” Sounds, sensations, thoughts, and frustrations all call out slightly louder and faster than the steady drumming of sleep requires.
	If I check the time, it will have only been minutes that I've laid here. If I don't check the clock, many hours will have inevitably marched by me in my fruitless faking of sleep. The soft images of slumber are viciously stamped out by ferociously forced screams of my mind demanding dreams.
	I hear my watch beep twice as the new hour begins. How long have I been laying here? Fed up with these futile attempts to sleep, now it feels even harder than before to force the transition of my eyelids to open and check my Facebook feed. My body and mind both feel like a thousand pricking needles and my shoulder begins to hurt in its cramped position. Exasperated, I finally sit up and turn on Netflix to entertain myself for the hours that remain until morning.

5. Substance Use Disorder (SUD)

1. THE BEGININGS: 	
	My substance use disorder, or addiction, has two flavors: medication, and self-medicated alcohol. They're both actually forms of self-medication, but in terms of substances, one branch is actual prescription medications. Growing up with my mental health disorders in a good, American family that believed in, and trusted, doctors and medicine, it didn't take long for me to fall into the system of, “a pill for every ailment.” After unsuccessfully trying the normal battery of non-abusable medications, my psychiatrist quickly saw that I was given the good old hard stuff. Ritalin and amphetamine stimulants for my ADHD, benzodiazepines for my anxiety, a sedative-hypnotic Ambien for insomnia, and then just boring SSRI antidepressants on the side. These drugs are fast working and incredibly powerful, and all of them were titrated up to the high doses. (As an aside away from psychiatry, who doesn't like their first dose of opiate pain killers from the doctor or dentist)? Now, unbeknown to me, I had been put on a heavy regiment of highly addictive, highly abusable prescriptions, believing that if it quelled the symptoms I was suffering, this could only be a good thing. There were simply two ways to ignite this potentially volatile powder keg, and I stumbled into both. 
	The first way to rattle the hornet's nest is through blind and innocent ignorance of how powerful these drugs are. After a long day at work or school, when it's becoming hard to focus again, taking another ADHD med. When the anxiety seems worse than ever, taking two pills instead of the prescribed one. Taking sleep meds and neglecting to actually try to sleep. All of these mistakes, in any combination, inevitably led to experiencing heightened euphoria, relaxing pleasure, and feeling like I was on top of the world, or at least that I could rule it. The manner in which I felt these highs were palpable and exhilarating. I had found the solution to all of my problems, and that was misusing my meds to achieve a better effect from them.
	The second way of lighting a fuse to the bomb that was my prescription list, was informed, educated knowledge of how powerful drugs are. After living through the ignorant stage of my soon-to-be addiction and realizing that minor abuse of medications hadn't hurt me or anyone else (adding a teenaged mentality of invincible rebellion), I quickly began to research how to better abuse my drugs. Reading books, scouring the internet, and knowing who to ask. These were the building blocks of my intentional search for better and longer highs. I had no conceivable way to know the ruinous path I was walking down. It was at this point that I, like most late high schoolers, I discovered the effects of alcohol. Alcohol was cheap, easier to access, socially acceptable, and most importantly, seemed to treat all the negative symptoms of my mental illnesses. Depression, anxiety, and insomnia be damned! It even eased my ADHD to a degree; after a couple drinks, the anxious noise of the world around me quieted and completing tasks became easier and more enjoyable to do. I remember turning my homework into a drinking game just to make sure I got it done on time.
	I graduated high school and entered into college with a fully stocked military arsenal of “get addicted fast” tools and habits that I believed would help me to live a truly free and happy life. These were the beginnings of my worst downfall. It didn't take long for me to start seeing that the negative side effects of drinking and drugging outweighed their potential good. At eighteen years old,  in 2008, I wrote the following poem:

Those Sort of Things
Hallowed saints hold our hollow hearts,
Turned hard and heavy in their hands.
With adderall days and ambien nights,
Sobriety suddenly seems like suffering.

I've been trying to choose my own ground
But instead I've stepped into quicksand
I'm waist deep with the weight of the world on my shoulders,
My arms out stretched to hold you up as well.

Tobacco, peppermint, and alcohol,
Peanut butter mouth wash.
Slurring wordstogetherandstumblingdownthehall,
Passed out, I'm sorry, babe, I really meant to call.

Drunk alone in bed again- just part of the routine,
I think I'd like to break the habit,
But unlike my friends, my sorrows haven't left me,
You just can't drink those sort of things away.

Red watering eyes, sick waiting for the next line,
Insuffilated thrills and rolled dollar bills
Crushed and carded whites, oranges, blues, and more.
Short lived, but every come down has its percs.

2. THE FALL:
	My addiction is a constant lingering terror of impending doom. A more than unpleasant suspicion that my world is falling apart. It's the feeling of the air being sucked out of my lungs and suffocating every second that I'm removed from my drugs. Eating, working, loving, playing, being successful, honest, and hygiene are all unimportant when you feel like you're about to die. We're all amazed by stories of the extreme lengths people will go to survive death, even inspired by them, like the hiker who cut off his arm when it became pinned beneath a bolder.. However, then we hear stories of the extreme and unusual lengths addicts go to get high again, we're filled with disgust, judgement, and revile them for their actions. The reality of my addiction is that it feels like death if I don't give into the temptation. My addiction is the massive boulder that has pinned me down by the arm.. This unholy belief that everything will feel better if I drink again has utterly destroyed my life, my relationships, my health, and my wellbeing. 
	At a certain point, I will physically have seizures and die if I don't continue drinking. I've seen the inside of too many emergency rooms and intensive care units trying to get sober again. Unbearable discomfort and delusional thinking are where my addiction took me. It rotted away at my friendships, family, relationships, financial stability, and it even robbed me of a home. It convinced me that I was the paragon of a "waste of time" and completely worthless. The only way to make things better was to reach for the bottle of alcohol or pills.
	Thankfully and luckily I am six months sober as of 12/18/23. I feel like I can finally breathe again, the oxygen has returned to my lungs.