Thursday, November 18th, 2021: Putting the Pain in Paint
Living with Endo, OCD, and ADHD
I recently learned that my period & cycle may often affect the effectiveness of my ADHD medication (which is also partially my OCD med regimen, too) during that specific time of the month (week before, week of, and week after). I’ve noticed this before, and I simply didn’t have any name to put to the symptoms I experienced.
In middle school, I got my period for the first time. I was in seventh grade. We were taking the math section of the PSSAs. Standardized testing was never my forte, and when I felt the warm discomfort of my uterine tissue leaking out of my body, I completely lost my train of thought. Math was not my strength. I had to ask to go to the nurse. I had on neon green sweatpants, joggers from Aeropostale. My mom worked that day, so my dad picked me up, a relief. My parents were consumed by their unhealed wounds, and they sufficiently explained to me that this wasn’t a bad thing.
My mom directly said “Now you can get pregnant, so don’t be fooling around with any boys.” Around twelve years old, her statement felt weird to me, and I didn’t say anything, just that I didn’t want any boys to touch me. She said “Yeah, we’ll see. You better be careful.” I had not lost my virginity at this point, still a child whose body decided to switch on puberty in the middle of a test.
It feels like for some people, humans who bleed either become less enticing or more enticing once puberty hits. Perverts don’t want anything to do with our maturing bodies, and perverts with differing interests want everything to do with our brand new bodies, bodies our minds haven’t quite caught up to just yet. It’s scary, growing up AFAB/with a uterus/femme-presenting. If I had a dollar for each entitled man that believed my body meant nothing to me and arousal to him.
With the lived experience of white men everywhere trying to control my reproductive system (and I’m white, so I don’t even have the full experience that non-white humans experience), finding out I had endometriosis felt like a gut punch that penetrated stomach and took exit through my back, just missing my spine. My body fights me so much. My brain fights me. It doesn’t make my life less worth living; it’s frustrating. I’m pissed off about it, especially when I think about the ways my mother spoke to me and perceived sexuality and sexual health.
I’m in pain because of the inflamed tissue in my abdomen, I’m in pain because my body physiologically reacts differently to the medication I’m prescribed to manage my neuropsychiatric and mental health disorders. My neurodivergence directly affects the medication that helps me get through the day functionally! That’s some bullshit. My parents chose to yell at me, tell me how bad I am, and shame me instead of treating the brain dysfunction I suffered through every day.
My OCD is chronic, no cure, though treatable. So is my ADHD. If my parents had taken a curious over furious approach, who’s to say how I’d be managing my physical symptoms of endo combined with the neuropsychiatric and cognitive symptoms of the other disorders? I don’t necessarily think it’s a great idea to ruminate on what could of been, though honoring what could have been matters in respect to healing those wounds. Appreciating that I understand now what I needed then, accepting that my parents were not equipped to manage their own emotional and mental health, so they couldn’t have possibly understood how to do that for children of their own. Whole other human beings.
While I was busy managing my mom’s emotions, my body and mind were digging deeper graves, graves I would eventually have to claw myself out of later in adulthood. Don’t get me wrong, I am so glad I clawed my fucking way out of those trenches, though that’s not something I would’ve had to do if my parents and their parents did the healing work necessary to protect us future generations and generations after us.
It scares me to think I possess the potential to do what my mother did to me to a baby of my own (adopted or biological). That’s one of my top five worst fears, and that’s telling. My parents took my cries for help as personal attacks, attacks on their parenting, and if you think about it, how egotistical is that? That when your child is crying out for help in whatever ways they do, you take it as an attack on your parenting and choices? Bro, help your kid. Stop thinking about yourself. That’s where a lot of these core issues begin in the Narcissistic Family System. That’s where we learn to suppress our emotions to protect theirs; that’s where we learn to suppress our pain because our parents’ pain is the top priority; that’s where we learn to put every other lifeform on this planet before ourselves until we lose ourselves. Finding my voice was the first step in healing pain, whether physical or otherwise.
I suffered for so long with my pleas for help floating off to the wayside because I was “a bad kid,” “too dramatic and sensitive,” and “trying to get out of doing things.” Instead of thinking, Hm, maybe my child is having issues with their brain, my parents chose to call me lazy and disrespectful and angry and all of these other words that inherently attempted to change the truth of my experience and the narrative of my reality to fit their agenda. I’m not pointing the finger at them or blaming them; I am describing the ways in which their perception affect me now, as an adult, in my own life separate from my family of origin.
They were unable to respect me, my autonomy, and my pain. My brother recently messaged me to tell me he hates me because of how terrible I am as a sister, about how I don’t have a job, etc. etc., and I just don’t care about opinions driven by the false narrative of my narcissistic mother who has a history of denying my pain to prioritize her emotional needs, needs she should be able to meet on her own. I will not deny my pain, my problems, or my perceptions anymore to people please and protect people who should’ve been protecting me. Talking around problems does not solve them, and after a lifetime of being invalidated, gaslighted, manipulated, and love-bombed, I wish only peace for her and the rest of my family of origin. I don’t have the time or energy to waste on trying to convince people who are supposed to unconditionally love me that I am lovable. Especially when my body and mind are struggling with these levels of pain.
My body makes decisions I don’t agree with, and so why would I put up with external sources trying to steal away my autonomy to make themselves more comfortable in their unfulfilled lives. No shade, no hate. I’m living a life that we be a breath of fresh air upon my death bed. When my life flashes before my eyes, I want it to be a life I stand by, a life I’m proud of, a life where lessons were learned and love was expressed. I want it to be a life where I chose myself and the family I decided to build. I want it to be a life where the pain happened, and it didn’t stop me from achieving the goals my passions drive me to achieve.
I’ll admit, creating is hard today, though I’ll get here. It just might be a little bit of a slower process today, and that’s okay! :’)
Taking this pain one day at a time, thinking of lost friends, and hoping that you all find some little sprinkles of peace and joy throughout your day today!
prguitarman
kianamaiart
izzy806
germansingergirl
annaxmalina
discoholicmusic
jacobvanloon
