#anyway. someone armchair diagnose me with something to explain why i Did This | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mangodestroyer · 1 year

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Gotta love how me being trans continues to be a huge fucking problem for everyone. Not in the sense that it makes people hateful or violent. They literally just cannot believe me or accept it.

As a kid, I insisted constantly that I didn't want to be a girl. That I WASN'T one. That I would much rather be a boy. I would constantly participate in boyish interests and clearly look very happy wearing boy clothes. But of course, if you ask my mother, I was "always very feminine."

And for a while, I started acting super feminine to "fit in" and because I got sick of constantly defending my boyish interests. I never felt happy being femme though. Tbh, wearing things that are feminine and looking in the mirror while doing so makes me want to rip my fucking skin off. Having people emphasize how "girly" and "feminine" I am makes me die inside. And I remember once even my friend, out of nowhere, said, "You're happy being a girl!" and I just lost my shit.

So I finally started to embrace how I always felt inside, and suddenly everyone's all like, "Yeah, no. You're 100% feminine. There's no way you're trans." I'm not even kidding, not a single person seems to believe me about it when I tell them. So yeah... guess I'll just keep doing things to make myself more comfortable with my own identity and continue to accept the fact that I'll never pass. I remember now why I started suppressing this part of myself because I feel pretty miserable about this. I think I forgot just how much people are opposed to me identify as more masc.

It's the same thing with my neurodiversity too. Despite having a diagnosed condition, I'm still just a socially awkward neurotypical looking for excuses and attention ig. Even though there's a lot of evidence to suggest that I'm actually even less NT than previously believed.

Why the fuck is it so hard for people to accept that not everyone is cishet and NT anyway? And why the fuck does everyone act like they know me better than I know myself? Would it really disrupt the balance of the universe if I happen to be neurodivergent and go by "he" or "they?" All I'm asking for is... idk... understanding and acceptance? Yet they act like I'm trying to steal 100,000 dollars from them or something. Like me explaining these things to them is so fucking offensive and disruptive to their very existence.

This is one reason I hate people. It's such a small effort to acknowledge that someone might not identify the way you thought they did. How they thought they did. And would it really hurt to let them try the identity out and see if it works? I'm not even personally going for surgeries or anything. I just want to start dressing, looking, and acting more masculine. Who would I even be hurting? And so what if it turns out I'm wrong? If I'm wrong, I can stop doing it.

Same with the neurodiversity, honestly. So it turns out my brains a little different and I need to live my life a little differently? Big fucking deal. It's really not that disruptive to anyone else's livelihood. God forbid I practice a certain routine and self-care that actually helps me feel more mentally equipped to deal with life. I'm not even asking to be accommodated at my job or school! All I'm asking is for people to understand that I get overstimulated and CAN'T HAVE LOUD NOISES IN MY OWN LITTLE RETREAT! Pretty sure even a NT needs a place to get away when things become overwhelming.

It blows my fucking mind how identifying with anything outside of the norm is such a crime for these people. And how these armchair psychologists think they get to dictate what I am. People who are actually educated in this field are the ones who suggested the neurodiversity thing to me and EVEN DIAGNOSED ME with my communication disorder when I was a kid.

I literally cannot even begin to express how fucking tired of this shit I am. I almost wonder if people are doing this out of malicious intent to trigger my dysphoria and gaslight me over my own life experience to mess with my head.

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yellowocaballero · 4 years

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written in 2 hours for $5

my friend: so, in your story, you say that Jon went to see a doctor who DIDN’T diagnose him with anything, despite him thinking all of his employees were trying to kill him...I will give you $5 to write this conversation

me: what’s your venmo.

under a readmore as to not traumatize Bukowski with sloppy depictions of therapy.

Okay, that ordeal was over with. Jon hated health services. He never went to the doctor if he could help it. It was easy to avoid it, since Elias gave as little healthcare as physically possible, and Jon was of the personal opinion that he never got sick, anyway. Sickness was a state of mind, and Jon’s mind was not in that state. What was a cold but your body temporarily acting funny before going back to normal? Absolutely nothing, no matter what Martin wrung his hands and insisted about. If Jon got the flu, he threw up in the toilet and then went back to work. RIP to the influenza virus but he was different.

Jon sat anxiously in the waiting room of the counseling clinic, struggling to recall if his mother was depressed or not.

Like, Jon would personally be very depressed, if he had given birth to Jon. He hesitantly wrote it in, then scratched it out, then scowled at the very nuclear family centric medical history section of the patient chart, then went through the usual rigamarole of feeling self-pity over being an orphan. Finally, he settled on just writing in a big question mark in the mother and father sections. He wrote into the side that his Grandfather and two of his Uncles had schizophrenia, which had to be useful in some sort of way.

The waiting room for the clinic wasn’t empty, even if that would have made Jon feel better. A tired looking Hispanic woman clutching her purse sat on one couch, an elderly man clutching a cane sitting in an armchair with his wife browsing a magazine beside him. Boring, banal, bothersome. Jon wasn’t like these losers. He wasn’t a weak-willed person who…accused all of his coworkers of murder plots…to the extent where one of his subordinates threatened him into going to a therapist. That hadn’t happened. To him.

For the record, it wouldn’t have worked if Martin hadn’t been so good at disguising what a manipulative bastard he was. Jon didn’t know people could make their eyes that big. Or that people could be so talented at gathering evidence of workplace harassment, enough that even Elias would be forced to exact some sort of disciplinary action against him. Had Martin always been so terrifying? His ranking on the ‘Possibly Wants To Kill Me’ scale jumped a few notches, but was forced to drop down a few notches due to Jon admitting that someone who wanted to kill him probably wouldn’t blackmail him into therapy.

Probably.

He briefly detailed his diagnostic history (none), detailed his list of previous surgeries and health conditions (none, save the anemia in uni), and briefly gave a list of childhood trauma (none that anyone would believe, although he found himself hesitantly writing down ‘Foster system, parental incarceration, orphaned’, as if that was a real trauma or something instead of stuff that just happened to him that had no effect on his brain whatsoever).

He finally got to the difficult section, the one that always tripped him up and made him sweat. He breezed through the demo questions (Black, male last time he checked, younger than he looked) but stared for an uncomfortably long time at the sexuality questions. His pen hovered over heterosexual, but his Mental Georgie (meaner than the actual Georgie) yelled at him until his pen hovered over bisexual instead. But that wasn’t quite right either, was it? Bad memories of scrolling desperately and shamefully through AVEN at 2am last year flashed through his mind, but asexual wasn’t on the list. He marked in bisexual, although he didn’t think it counted if he’d never had any…relations with male presenting people, although it didn’t quite fit.

Under alcohol use he very proudly put none, feeling both smug and embarrassed over being smug over it. Under drug use he also was proud to put none. Then it asked for his history and, like, whatever. He hated this list. It sucked. Jon didn’t like admitting to the coke he only did three times. Or was it four? That he could remember.

Under the ‘Have you ever been hospitalized’ question he put yes, then he remembered that they had technically diagnosed him with alcoholism and depression so he had to go back and put that down in his diagnoses, then he had to put down that he had attempted suicide a few times. Jon felt uncomfortable about nameless strangers knowing this, when he had never told anybody and had never been planning on it. It was a secret he would take to his grave, but he was telling this piece of paper, apparently. Hopefully nobody looked at this.

Under the section for ‘why he came in’, Jon decided honestly was the best policy. He wrote down carefully, in precise letters, ‘I do not need to come in but my subordinate (who may be plotting murder against me) blackmailed me into it’. There. Honesty was the best policy.

Finally the accursed intake form was over, Jon was able to hand it to the nurse he suddenly imagined looked very judgmental, and he was able to flip aimlessly through the three year old magazines on the glass tabletop flanking a piece of calming abstract art. He would never admit it to literally anybody in his life, but he enjoyed the voyeurism of celebrity gossip. He loved learning things about people that were supposed to be private, that nobody was supposed to know. It wasn’t a real secret if he learned it off TMZ, but it felt like one, and that was good enough. It was none of his business who was dating who or who had cheated on who, but that was part of the fun. Jon’s thirst for knowledge was absolute. But, still, nobody could ever know about this. Georgie had laughed at him for a week when she found out.

Still, the magazine was wrong. The pop star wasn’t cheating on her boyfriend with her bodyguard. She was cheating on her boyfriend with her college roommate. Jon didn’t remember exactly where he had read it, but he knew it was true. Must have caught it on a reddit thread or something. Jon snorted. They should really polish up on their fact checking.

After what felt like hours, but in fact was twenty-two minutes and forty seconds exactly, the nurse called Jon in. They took his height (still too tall), took his weight (ugh….), and took his blood pressure, which seemed to alarm the nurse, who asked him if he had a family history of hypertension. He just explained that his job was very high stress.

“Ah,” the nurse said, and made a note on his clipboard.

“The previous holder of my position was murdered,” Jon said helpfully, “and I think one of my employees did it. Either that or my boss. That, or various supernatural entities, but generally I’ve been doing a pretty good job of holding those off.”

“That’s so interesting,” the nurse said, making another note on the clipboard.

Then he was directed into the actual therapist’s office. Not his therapist, or at least he didn’t think so – the way they explained it to him, and the way the twenty internet sites he’d compulsively researched said it worked, was that he would get an intake with a trainee, who would then refer him to a therapist that worked for him in the building. It made sense, although very little about this entire process really did. Jon hated doctors. What were therapists, but doctors who made less sense, and did not respect science?

The intake therapist’s office was overly calming. There was an incense diffuser in the corner, a tea station set up in another corner, and a comfortable looking couch facing a chair. There was a coffee table in the center filled with fidget toys and candy, along with some stuffed animals and other comfort items with some books, and Jon awkwardly shook the hand of the young woman who opened the door for him and sat down on the far corner of the couch.

She introduced herself as Angela and had a bright white smile. Jon wondered if she had ever killed anybody. Her hair was glossy and black, she seemed to be Hispanic or thereabouts, and exuded a trustworthy and competent yet friendly air. Jon did not trust her.

“So, Jon,” Angela said, once they both settled down. “I’m just going to give you a quick run-down of this process. I’ll interview you based on your intake form, we’ll come up with a case formulation, and I’ll refer you to a therapist with our clinic who can help you out. You indicated that this is your first time seeing a counselor?”

“Uh, yes.” Jon clasped his hands, then his knees, then sat up very straight, then slouched. He now understood why the fidget toys were there. “But I really don’t want to see a therapist. I just told someone I’d come in here, so here I am. I can leave right after this.”

“Who asked you to come in?”

“Martin. Uh. My employee.”

She made a note in her notebook. “Does he only know you from work?”

“Yes.”

“So your employees have been noticing some behavior from you at work that lead them to ask you to come?” Angela asked delicately.

“Uh. Yeah.”

“What kind of behavior?”

Well, sure, make him think about it. Jon clenched his trousers a little. “I’ve been…well, according to Tim, I’ve been stalking them a bit. Which, perhaps, from a certain point of view, I’m willing to admit to. Also going through their desks. Some verbal accusations. Apparently, I’ve been difficult to work with lately.”

Scribble scribble scribble. “What sort of accusations?”

“Someone’s trying to kill me,” Jon said firmly. “I’m just trying to find out who. I’m exploring every option. Nobody is above suspicion. I know it seems…I know it doesn’t seem very usual, but that’s the situation.”

“Have you talked to the police?”

God, has he ever. “They’re willing to collaborate with me, but there’s only so much they can do,” Jon said seriously. Even if they had confidentiality, which they had explained to him as he came in, he could hardly admit to Basira doing something illegal for him. “But we are working on it together. At least some officers on the force take murder investigations seriously.”

“Alright. If you don’t mind, I’m going to refer back to some questions that we asked you on the sheet. Just a little more detail on them.” Angela looked down at what he had to assume was a print-out of his answers on the intake questionnaire. “It says here that you have a family history of schizophrenia?”

“Yeah,” Jon said blankly, “what does that have to do with anything?”

She looked further down the list. “And…a history of alcoholism and drug abuse?”

“Yes, technically.”

“Alright.” She leaned backwards and opened a file cabinet, rifling through it before withdrawing a piece of paper and passing it to Jon. Jon hesitantly took it, scanning the paper. “Can you fill this out for me quickly, please?”

Jon read the questions.

Do you ever hear or see things that others cannot?

Well, yes, Jon experienced many supernatural phenomena that others could not perceive. He checked off yes.

Do you ever struggle to trust that what you are thinking is real?

Frequently. He just knew his mind was being manipulated by the mysterious Watcher. Plus there was that business with Sasha. Something’s off about her.

Do you ever get the sense that others are controlling your thoughts and emotions?

That occurred in dozens of Statements, plus his own life. Yes.

Do you struggle to keep up with daily living tasks?

Tim did tell him that he didn’t shower enough…

Do you feel that you have powers that others cannot understand or appreciate?

Jon thought blankly of all those times that he asked people questions and they almost…had to answer. He checked yes for that too.

Etc, etc, etc.

Jon looked up from this test. “Are you under the impression I’m schizophrenic?”

“I can’t make a diagnosis yet,” the therapist said delicately. “Why don’t we talk after you finish the screening.”

Jon silently passed it back to her, after checking yes on almost everything. She scanned it quickly.

“Hm.”

“Look,” Jon said awkwardly, knowing that this probably looked bad, “I know that I may come off as a paranoid lunatic, but the supernatural is out there and is targeting me personally. I think I may work for it, honestly? Do you ever feel like an accountant for evil in your day to day life, or is that just me?” Jon paused a beat, and found that his hands were shaking. He was scared. Why was he scared? “I always feel something watching me. Something – something in the walls. I’m sitting at my desk, it’s late at night, and nobody’s around, but sometimes when I do my work…I feel something looking over my shoulder. It hates me. It wants to hurt me. I don’t know why I know it, I just do. Something invisible in the walls is looking at me, and nobody believes me when I say it’s there but I know it is.” He found himself speaking faster, almost as if he was begging her to understand. “When you look at a – at this couch, you know it’s there, right? How would you feel if everybody started telling you that it wasn’t there? That what your eyes and ears and body was telling you was fake? You’d feel like it was everybody else who was crazy, not you. Even if your eyes were closed, if you reached out your hand you could feel it. No matter what you might tell yourself, or what other people might tell you, it’s real. It’s there. You can’t deny it. I’m not crazy. It’s there. Something is watching me. You don’t – you don’t have to believe me. But I’m right. And you’re wrong, if you think it’s not.”

Angela stared at him.

Then she stood up, clutching her mobile. Jon realized for the first time that it was ringing. “I’ll be right back.”

She left the room, holding the phone to her ear. Jon felt it was somewhat unprofessional for a therapist to walk out in the middle of a session for a phone call. Maybe it was important? Her husband was in the hospital or something? It was none of his business.

Jon tapped his toes. Stared at the wall. There was a poster with a sloth on it that said ‘Hang In There!’. He was hanging in there, all right.

He wondered if he was crazy. If it even mattered.

Jon had always had nobody but himself to rely on. Well, maybe Georgie, once upon a time, but he had burned that bridge. At the end of the day, it had always been him. In that gutter where he had almost drowned in his own vomit, it had just been him.

If he couldn’t trust his own mind, who could he trust? If even his own faculties left him, he had nothing. No friends, no family, no support. Just him. If Jon lost his mind, if he went completely crazy, then there was nobody to pick up the pieces ever again. For the first time since coming in, Jon found himself scared. Would he have to take medication? Would it make him dumb? Jon would rather be crazy then dumb.

The door opened, and Angela returned. But there was something just a little different about her, something Jon picked up immediately. Her eyes were – almost glassy, almost not present. She had been such an attentive, active listener before, but now she seemed far away. Her gait was a little stiffer than it had been previously.

“Bad news?” Jon breached awkwardly.

“Nothing to worry about,” Angela smiled. But it didn’t reach her eyes. How strange. She sat back down in her chair, posture perfect and prim. “Well, I took a look at your sheet, and I have some good news for you.”

“You – you do?” Jon asked, thrown off. Doctors never had good news for him. They always seemed to think he was a medical freak of nature who was alive only through an act of spite against god.

“Of course. You don’t seem to have any kind of mental illness. Honestly, I just think your problem is that you’re stressed at work.”

“I – so you don’t think I’m schizophrenic? Despite answering yes to almost every question on that test? And having family members with schizophrenia? And being a black male in my late twenties, the highest risk group?”

“Yes.” Angela smiled prettily at him. “I think it’s just a matter of adjustment. You’re a transitionary phase in your life, Jon. You’re moving from one role to another. I think all you have to do is accept your new role in life, and your problems will sort themselves out.”

“I – yes. Yes, of course.” It was like a huge weight had been taken off his chest. Jon felt so relieved. Nothing was wrong with him. His mind was still his own. He wasn’t crazy! “You’re right. I’m just stressed. Thank you so much, doctor. I feel a lot better about this now. I knew Martin was just overreacting.”

“Martin’s always overreacting!” Angela laughed. She stood up from her chair, clearly signifying the interview was over despite him only being there for less than ten minutes. “Have a great day, Jon. You deserve it.”

“Thanks, doctor. I promise I’ll work on – just calming down a bit. Wow. What a relief.” Jon stood up too, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers before shaking her hand. “I knew I wasn’t crazy.”

“What’s crazy,” Angela said, “but a state of mind? The world is already so bizarre and usual, Jon, it’s strangest to be sane.”

“I – okay?”

Jon left the doctor’s appointment feeling very good about everything. Maybe the doctor’s had been a good idea. He would have to thank Martin.

Wow. Now that was a crazy thought. Thanking Martin! Hah!

Jon went home, feeling very good about his life and his trajectory in it.

For the very last time.

#takes place in bbc verse but can be read independently if you want #actually secretly contains spoilers for that story but you can't really tell #tma #the magnus archives fanfiction #my writing #the magnus archives

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andersfels · 3 years

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this is controversial i know but like. i really do want to talk about why ~friendly advice~ isn't always so helpful.

because to start with, for one piece of advice to really be helpful across the board for a mental illness, everybody has to function the same under that illness.

alright, okay, let's just assume that's the case.

well then have to assume...everyone is correctly diagnosed, and also not additionall dealing with co-morbid conditions.

this is an incredibly big deal to me, because i was diagnosed with depression instead of adhd. this is not an uncommon misdiagnosis, especially for women. but what happened is that i sat here struggling with issues i didn't understand, and they were not being explained to me.

all i knew is a doctor told me i had depression, and everyone around me kept giving me generic advice for a misdiagnosis, and i couldn't for the life of me figure out why i couldn't follow it. i couldn't figure out why my attention was constantly shot to hell even on depression meds. i couldn't figure out why i had no motivation for shit even when i didn't feel depressed. i couldn't figure out why it was so hard to do things like maintain a schedule, regularly shower and brush my teeth, and keep my space clean. i didn't even remember to drink water.

and the advice? "keep a schedule. keep yourself and your space clean. keep healthy and drink water."

i felt like a fucking failure, doomed to depression for all eternity because the advice for my issues was to...do all the things i couldn't do. which WAS my issue.

and it's funny, because people hand out mental illness advice like candy while also condemning self diagnosis, which is wild because for all intents and purposes, that advice rides on the belief of the person giving it that they know the solution to someone's problems. which is itself an armchair diagnosis, something even less educated than self dianosis.

every bit of advice i got over the years made my life feel so much worse. people looked at me and assumed i was depressed, and i never got help once. they did shit like looking at my sleep schedule and blamed it for my problems, instead of considering once that my sleep issues were a goddamn symptom.

their advice was the opposite of helpful. and i don't say this to be like "don't try to help people!!1!" but i do mean to open a discussion of like...the fact that advice is not super helpful when it's not educated.

i don't really care if you think yoga and water and sleep schedules are helpful. you don't know my condition or how i function or what my very specific issues are, so you CAN'T be helpful. and even if you did know, you are not educated enough to know if whether something helpful seeming to you has harmful effects, such as encouraging manic behavior in the name of "self care" from people experiencing lack of impulse control.

and i really have taken enough time coddling the feelings of mentally healthy and NT people who are "just trying to help." I've seen way too many people beat themselves up because they either can't apply the advice given to them, or it's been wrongfully given to them.

you as someone without a degree might look at me and think i have depression instead of severe rsd and trauma and exec dysfunction from adhd, and the resulting advice would be so incredibly unhelpful because it's almost exactly at odds with my specific issues. i have known depressed people to have chronic fatigue or mono and get told they need to do yoga to be cured.

general advice is not "apply to all." it's an indisputable fact that the article you read online once that gave suggestions on how to handle mental illness is not applicable to everyone.

and i don't care if people make posts reminding people to drink water or stretch or clean. that's not what I'm talking about.

i mean if you meet someone with depression, and you want to tell them they need to do x thing in order to get better, you aren't really in a position to say shit. saying "if you don't exercise you'll stay depressed" is not fucking helpful advice. it's assuming the role of a doctor for a condition (or multiple conditions) you neither know, understand their individual function of, or have been educated and certified to treat.

and your words have power over the people you speak to, expecially considering conditions that are mental. losing motivation to take care of yourself because you can't meet the standards someone else has set for your health is a VERY common experience of ours.

if that person you hypothetically spoke to cannot for some reason exercise, they might then decide to give up on whatever other self care they had been managing, because you just told them since they can't do what you expect of them, they'll never be healthy anyway.

they might be like me and feel like failure pieces of shit, because they have been misdiagnosed with depression or affected by other conditions that stop them from being able to follow the depression advice, triggering actual depression over what originally was something else.

and i know the "I'm not neurotypical karen" response to advice is not helpful either, but we don't have to literally bounce between two extremes here.

mentally ill people need to be receptive to basic shit like "drink water," but NT people need to also accept they aren't in a place to be telling us what the fuck to do when they don't even know who to direct their advice at or who it might hurt, and that people that their advice doesn't help are not obligated to accept it.

i literally got accused of being "anti recovery" by MULTIPLE PEOPLE on this site for saying their depression advice wasn't helpful to me. turns out it's because they were trying to make me follow depression advice for having adhd, which frankly usually the ONLY fucking advice people ever have even though depression is only one of a million mental issues people have. it's fucking ridiculous.

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wern · 4 years

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ok here are some of the things ive literally just been ruminating about at really high speeds..

am i going too far in armchair diagnosing the ppl i know? specifically i was thinking about how i think my dad might have bpd, either instead of or with his npd. and i was thinking about how i should look into the issue of codependency because my mom was/is DEFINITELY a codependent caretaker to both my father (who has npd/bpd, tourettes syndrome, adhd, ocd, ptsd, something else i might be forgetting -- all but the PDs are professional diagnoses, and psychiatrists often hold back PD diagnoses from patients) and my stepfather as well (who hasnt had a job in 20 years and can't really leave the house anymore, is diagnosed with depression and ptsd, has very low mobility due to weight so even his past household responsibilities are now performed by his kids).

the codependency idea might help explain why she did nothing when she found out my stepfather was innapropriate with me when i was a teenager. i can't understand wanting to be partnered with someone who acted like that, especially since I see her as like, extremely virtuous? but maybe to her the important thing is that she continues to be a carer. it all might help explain why i struggle so much to be independent. she always said she regretted doing so much for me as a kid, and i had a veerry anxious attachment style with her as a child. I still have that attachment style.

anyways, is it helping me to try to "figure out" these diagnoses like a puzzle? it's not like im trying to fix the situation, it's just i get excited about the idea that i can somehow better explain and predict their behaviour. it's like in linguistics, you want to be able to explain the data you have, and correctly predict the data you don't have. unrelatedly, in the case of my dad it does help me feel less crazy because it backs up the idea that he was (and still is) gaslighting me and treating me badly.

but do i need to keep looking for proof of that? i already know it's true, and my mom says he did the same exact thing to her. is my interest unhealthy? i already know he's a sick manipulative uncontrolled mess. do i need to personally figure out the mechanisms behind all his dysfunctions?

or is it just that abnormal psychology is an interest of mine, and that he is an excellent example of many dysfunctions, and a good opportunity to figure out these "puzzles"?

the ruminating/armchair-diagnosing also sometimes helps me to understand my own many dysfunctions and diagnoses. right now im trying to figure out whether my "tics" are akin to tourettes tics or if maybe it's just a manifestation of my ocd. because i often perform these tics voluntarily, to try to clear my mind of unwanted thoughts or memories. tourettes tics are meant to be "post-voluntary" (i need to look into that term more), and my dad's tics have always seemed much more unconscious, robotic, and reflexive than what i do. and while unwanted/intrusive images do go along with tourettes, are the tics always a neutralizing response? or can tourette's tics come on their own? mine don't.

for me i get these very detailed and emotional flashbacks to a repertoire of moments where i feel i acted wrong or embarrassed myself. they bring really strong emotions, and i refer to them as "flashbacks" because it's not like just remembering that it happened. i can and do sometimes remember these moments without having "flashbacks" to them, and in those cases they don't carry a lot of anxiety (like, they carry normal amounts), and i don't perform any tic.

i guess my original question was "What if every family is like this and I'm just overanalyzing??" but now that I've written all this I'm like. k nvm obviously there are some serious pathologies going on here im not imagining it. But i know i'll have to remind myself of all of this again tomorrow!! I guess the answer is that both things are true: Yes my whole family has all these disorders and it may help me to figure them out, and Yes by continuing to ruminate on these issue I'm reinforcing my compulsive need to check that I'm not imagining things. Dialectics! See, i did learn something in dialectical behaviour therapy

anyways i am still thinking about this and have more thoughts on all this but i think i need to stop lol. if u have any opinions on any of this pls feel free to tell mee!! sorry for the long post

#psychology #personal #th #actuallyadhd #anxiety #long post

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