High Holy Day Struggles

Content warning for topics around depression, misdiagnosis/medical trauma and suicide. Take care of yourself first, always.

When the sun sets tonight, likely around the time I post this, we will have begun a new Jewish year. Today is Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement-- the holiest day in the Jewish calendar. This time, every year, challenges me in regards to my mental health. It is a beginning, it is an ending, it is a challenge, and it is a celebration. It is everything and so much more jam packed into a couple weeks. I don't believe it will ever be easy, but this year, for the first time, I felt okay.

As many of you reading this know, I have had a decade and a half long journey with my mental health. When I was only 12 years old, I was misdiagnosed with Bipolar II. This led to years of overmedication, dissociation, doctor's appointments, and deep, painful, horrifying, untreated depression. When I was 16 and a half years old, that changed-- right around the high holidays.

I have written and shared extensively about this challenging time in my life, and I am ever so grateful to my parents for giving me the privacy I needed then and for supporting me as I made the active choice to share my story of misdiagnosis, depression, and mental illness. I suffered for years in silence and in shame, and it is time now to speak up.

When we thought I had Bipolar disorder, success had a very different meaning than it does now. I have a tendency to experience burnout and crisis annually around my birthday, due to the existential intensity of living in adulthood. 

Trigger warning for discussions of suicidality.

Depression is a cruel beast, and misdiagnosis is the web of lies it lived within. We had no family history of Bipolar disorder, and objectively, 12 years old is dangerously young to start someone on these very intense psychiatric medications. It never felt right, but I never felt right questioning it. I never felt right, in general. I felt broken in every possible way.

Falling off the Walls

If you follow my Facebook or Instagram stories, you may have noticed my new hobby of rock climbing. I have another post detailing my fitness journey, but I wanted to take this one to discuss the less visible parts of the sport: the falls, the blisters, and the mistakes.

I started rock climbing in August of 2023, but only began to seriously train for it over the past year. Rock climbing came to me out of sheer convenience-- my dad often joked that it was "not on my yearly bingo card". And it's true. The climbing gym was the closest gym to my apartment, and they did have an area in the back with a Stairmaster and stationary bike if I never built up the courage to climb.

But I did. 

It took me so long to move past my fear, and even longer to build up the strength and fitness needed to actually scale up the wall. The sheer amount of upper body strength I have developed shocks even me. I went from a woman who needed to catch her breath after walking a block or two, to a teacher who can easily carry two toddlers across the play yard. 

About a year ago, I started posting videos of my climbing successes to my Instagram and Facebook stories. I would receive kind words and impressed reactions, and it felt good. I liked being able to share a piece of my life with my social media community, especially a piece I had worked so dang hard to accomplish.

I don't post nearly as often anymore, even though I am still very consistently climbing at the gym and getting in workouts every couple of days. Which leads me to the title of this post-- the ways I still come up short. The many times, every session, when I'm falling off the walls. 

Community Belonging in Uganda

A few weeks ago, I posted a piece about feeling less alone in my misdiagnosis story. I learned one of my favorite podcast hosts, Marcus Parks, had an extremely similar journey to mine of being misdiagnosed with Bipolar, suffering for years, and only recently learning of his severe ADHD diagnosis that was, for years, misread as Bipolar. That's my story, and I want to keep telling it. Here it is.

Hindsight is 20/20, or so they say. The beginnings of my journey with mental illness and misdiagnosis were scattered, with my only recently being able to see the neurodivergent roots of it all. But I want to outline the exact pieces and places where I was misread, to maybe give some hope and answers to others-- parents of neurodivergent girls, lonely teenagers, and everyone else who can relate with being squeezed into a box, feeling shamed into silence.

Before I begin, I want to give a note of hope to all my readers: Your voice matters. That was probably what I struggled with the most in that time, and afterwards-- the feeling that no one cared about how I saw the world, because they just wanted to write it off to a prescription pad and medication adjustment. I found writing and art in the darkest of times-- it saved me then, and it saves me now. 

You may have retrospect and clarity, once your brain finishes developing in your 20s and you feel like you belong to this world once again. And it's okay if it all feels so foggy right now, as if there is no possible answer, no clear path. It's okay if you feel alone and silenced. Keep making art, keep writing your truth, and be gentle with yourself. You are fighting battles in a world that doesn't understand you. Keep fighting, keep writing, and keep speaking truth. The world needs your story.

HALT! Self Care Should Be Boring

I used to hold the idea of self care in such high regard. One of my best friends, Arielle Davis (a blessed memory) and I used to makes jokes about “treat yo self”, a concept popularized by one of our favorite shows, Parks and Recreation. We’d have shopping sprees at target and late night sushi runs.

And these hold so much treasure to me now, because they are my favorite memories together. But as I have gotten older, understood my neurodivergence and my brain, and learned more and more about healthy coping mechanisms, I’ve come to the somewhat disappointing epiphany that self care should be, well, boring.

These days, self care for me is going to bed early and not playing on my phone in bed. It’s brushing my teeth and cleaning my kitchen even when I don’t feel like it. It’s choosing to eat strawberries instead of chocolate cake. It’s a dozen little things, small choices, that keep me in working condition. It's system mantainence. It's caring for my body and my mind. It is, in the truest form, self care. 

One of my favorite DBT (dialectical behavioral therapy) acronyms is HALT: hungry, angry, lonely, tired. I have been able to halt countless meltdowns simply by checking in on those four needs. 

Political Philosophy (or Maybe...I'll move to Australia--Part 2)

I wrote a post about a week ago, lamenting the everyday frustrations of being an adult, building furniture, cooking for myself, and having it all go wrong. But the title was inspired by a different issue. A political lament. A hostile government takeover. A righteous anger at an ongoing system of injustice. 

Allow me to elaborate.

In one of my favorite children's books of all time, "Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day", our titular character bemoans lists of grievances of his terrible day. Every few pages, Alexander contemplates moving to Australia, and these days, I feel that in my soul.

It was around the time I wrote that post that Trump's "Big Beautiful Bill" was narrowly passed and has quickly moved to become law. I don't know why this was what broke me, but it was.

In case you don't know, I am incredibly left leaning. Moving to Berkeley in 2019 only solidified that, with my political philosophy falling somewhere around the anarchist socialist stance. I believe that my 4 year old students should have the autonomy to choose their pronouns and be supported for their gender identity, whatever that may be. I believe abortions are a morally neutral medical choice that should be widely available, regardless of what state you live in. I believe a country as wealthy and hyper-developed as the USA needs to have a single payer healthcare system with guaranteed health insurance for every single American.Yes, I am that radical lefty feminist conservatives are terrified of.

At this point, I do need to clarify that these are my opinions only and they are fully disconnected from my teaching work and my profession (at a recent staff meeting, teachers were reminded to keep our social medias private so that we can appear professional in our field. These are my opinions only and this is my personal blog)

Maybe...I'll move to Australia

In one of my favorite children's books of all time, "Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day", our titular character bemoans lists of grievances of his terrible day. He wakes up with gum stuck in his hair, and it just goes downhill from there. Every few pages, Alexander contemplates moving to Australia, and these days, I feel that in my soul.

Today for me, was one of those terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days. Actually, the day wasn't all bad, but my afternoon and evening frustrated me to meltdown territory. 

About a month ago, I ordered a new swivel office chair off of TikTok shop, despite know the perils that come from ordering things from an app I know every time I open it will just feed into my carnal desires. When it arrived, it was straight up impossible to put together. The little holes where the screws go just WOULD NOT line up, because of the way the cushion was designed and WHY THE HECK was the cushion DESIGNED THIS WAY when you know it needs to be ASSEMBLED?

Not so alone

There is a unique brand of strength that emerges from intense vulnerability. Growing up, I hated being vulnerable. I feared how others might see my broken parts: my depression, my bipolar misdiagnosis, my anxiety, my sensory sensitivities. I had a wonderful support system in my family and in the larger community of my synagogue. And yet, the most terrifying thing I could think of, at that time, was being honest with others about my pain. 

A few months ago, one of my favorite true crime podcasts, Last Podcast on the Left, did an episode on Pyromania (stay with me, it'll be relevant). While discussing the correlations between neurodivergence (ADHD and Autism Spectrum Disorder) and pyromania (the obsessive desire to start fires), Marcus Parks, one of the hosts, opened up about his own neurodivergence.

Marcus had always been open about living with mental illness, Bipolar disorder in particular. He often repeated the phrase, "mental illness is not your fault, but it is your responsibility," and I always resonated with that. But during this episode, he spoke about his two decade long misdiagnosis struggle and being only recently re-diagnosed, correctly, with severe ADHD.

He talked about how many ADHD symptoms, such as hyper focus, can mimic bipolar mania. How severe ADHD can be incredibly debilitating, and how he had spent 20 years treating the wrong disorder. I was in shock, and nearly in tears.

Because that happened to me. 

Adulting, In a Child-like Way

I have a vivid recollection of having an intense meltdown at Oakland Children's Fairyland, because the ride operator wouldn't let me ride on the kids ferris wheel. I have held resentment ever since. 

My family was there for a friend's birthday, and I was definitely older than all the other party attendants. I remember arguing with the ride operator, pointing out a girl currently on the ferris wheel who was TALLER than me, but he still refused. I sulked off angrily, my cotton candy dreams brushed away like glitter.

I don't know why that particular angry fixation sticks with me, but I have some ideas. 

Autism Acceptance

A couple years ago, in March of 2023, I received the autism diagnosis I had been suspecting I had for years. A couple of years prior, I had reached out to a psychiatrist, recommended by my therapist, who specialized in autism and neurodivergence. I had several zoom meetings with my parents, each of us giving our own perspective on what was clearly a lifelong struggle. Still, by the end of our sessions together, I was scared. I told the doctor I didn't want to know, I knew that because of my ADHD I was at least neurodivergent, and that was enough of a label for me. It wasn't.

A year or so after that I scheduled a meeting with just him and me, to confirm my suspicions. He explained that autism is a spectrum, and I'm somewhere on that autism spectrum. I felt validated in ways I hadn't felt in years. Finally, this diagnosis gave me clarity. I began working WITH my neurodivergence, my AuDHD (Autism and ADHD combined), to set up a meaningful life.

I found a doctor close to me in Berkeley and set up an annual physical that was five years behind schedule. I went to the dentist and repaired all my teeth, which had cavities and needed crowns and fillings galore. I designed a night time routine that could incorporate brushing my teeth for two minutes with an electric toothbrush while I emptied and refilled the dishwasher (solving two problems at once). I found a rock climbing gym a few blocks away from my apartment, that was open late. Rock climbing could be an individual sport (bouldering, without the rope), so I could build habits, go to the gym, do some climbing, and improve my physical and mental health all together.

This was a new path, a new journey for me. As I understood my neurodivergence, I watched YouTube videos and channels of women with ADHD and women with Autism, finally reaching the understanding of why I was overlooked for so long.

It doesn't make it better-- not by a long shot. I'll include my favorite longer piece about my main mental health journey being misdiagnosed as Bipolar and feeling unseen as a young woman with depression and creativity and struggles and joys. All the contradictions made it hard to fit me in a box, so the doctors just dismissed me to more sedating medications and unending follow ups. 

And then I learned about how autism shows up in girls and women. I'll post some resources below for those of you interested in learning more. It has not been studied nearly enough, but as a society, we are becoming more accepting. Simply knowing I can describe myself as "neurodivergent" and have people understand that-- that alone is enough to give me wild hope.

The Purpose of Diagnosis

As many of you may know, a couple of years ago I was enrolled in a master's program for expressive arts therapy. It seemed like a really perfect fit, but many of the topics we covered hit too close to home and triggered me into distress. By the middle of the second semester, I was also doubtful that I would be able to continue this work professionally. It was heavy and emotionally taxing work, and as a neurodivergent woman, I already carried enough on a daily basis.

Still, I am very proud of some of the essays I wrote and I wanted to share them. This paper was for my psychopathology and psychological assessment course, and reflects on the role of diagnosis from a personal and professional lens. I hope you enjoy, and maybe can relate with some of my experiences and findings. And, for the record, I got a perfect score :)

Reflection Paper 1

Rivi Dollinger

January 28, 2024

MCP 5108: Psychopathology & Psychological Assessment

Introduction and Personal History

If you knew me a decade ago, you would never recognize me today. Due to various mental health issues and serious challenges surrounding my own misdiagnosis, I was a shell of the person I am today. My misdiagnosis destroyed me. An accurate diagnosis, however, led to remarkable levels of growth, meaningful work, and self actualization.

Needless to say, I have very mixed feelings on the role of diagnosis, and deeply personal experiences with the benefits and pitfalls of the diagnostic process. Because of my own experience with misdiagnosis and overmedication, I am quite hesitant around the blind support of our current biomedical model. As an adolescent, I was misdiagnosed with Bipolar disorder. I am sure there are many reasons why this happened– a lack of understanding around the presentation of autism in women, mistaking emotional dysregulation for psychotic mood swings, and numerous other causes. But in the end, whatever the reasons, it was because of this diagnostic process, specifically, that I suffered for years. I was given antipsychotics with numerous side effects, and seen more as a collection of symptoms rather than as a full person.