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. 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?

Anyway. 

I did manage to finally assemble it, after watching multiple videos and resorting to leaning the bottom part of the chair against the coffee table while I sat my butt on the top half to try and finagle the position for the stupid little holes to line up and I DID IT and... there's no wheels.

Who the f--k makes an OFFICE CHAIR with no WHEELS?! I was angry with TikTok shop, and my own impulsive spending, and the general problems with late stage capitalism and consumer culture. But then I was on Tiktok a few weeks later, and I saw there was an attachment you could buy to put wheels on it.

So yes, I did purchase a separate attachment that cost nearly as much as the original chair to solve a problem THEY HAD CREATED.

Anyway.

The wheel attachment arrived this afternoon. It was a long day of teaching, hot in the sun, but I was determined to build the chair and be all boss babe girl boss handywoman I got this. 

I did not.

I wanted to make ratatouille for dinner, using some summer vegetables and my cast iron pan. I would cook my dinner, I would build my chair, I would have a lovely quiet evening.

Jump two hours ahead to me sobbing on the phone with my dad because this STUPID CHAIR IS NOT WORKING IT'S JUST NOT!

So, fun fact about ratatouille: there's a lot of steps. There's the cutting and the chopping and the roasting and the simmering and the baking in the oven. I get off work at 5:30 pm. In retrospect, I probably should've made avocado toast.

So as my squash is browning, and then quickly on the verge of burning, and I am slamming a hammer into the foundation of the chair because I need that little part and it just won't come OUT and...

I lost it. I sat on my floor and I cried, and I wanted to call my dad for advice but my phone was somewhere in the mess of packaging and general clutter, and I had enough.

Maybe I'll move to Australia. 

I finally found my phone and called both my parents, because they were at a restaurant eating a dinner prepared by someone else that was NOT setting off the smoke alarm in the apartment and finally my mom picked up and I just...I cried.

It was the heavy heaving kind of tears, screaming and sobbing and cursing every stupid chair manufacturer and poorly planned out executive planning skills and just so much overwhelm at 8:30 pm on a Wednesday.

And my parents listened, and helped me to breathe through the anger and exhaustion and frustration. And my dad told me to take a shower or a bath (that helps regulate my body temperature when I am overwhelmed with emotion), and my mom suggested I watch Parks and Recreation to distract myself and have a quiet evening. 

I did that, and I felt better. 

I put the entire pot of ratatouille in the fridge because I didn't have it in me to package it up all neatly. And I put my dishes in the sink and I let them soak. And I grabbed my coziest pajama shirt and I got in bed and I wrote this blog post.

Because, as is clear by now, my office chair was no longer an option.

And my body has settled, my brain is quieting. I can go to sleep now and sleep deeply and tomorrow will be a new day. 

Because some days are just like that.

Even in Australia.

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. I was diagnosed at age 12, incorrectly, with Bipolar II. It wasn't until I was 17 that we even found a doctor ready to start from scratch and really figure out what I was struggling with. Those four years felt like Hell. The medications used to treat bipolar disorder have severe side effects, including lethargy, tremors, and slurred speech. For years I felt more comfortable being silent, despite having so much to say. When the UCLA doctors finally said those words, "Bipolar tentative", I felt a wave of relief. 

This is not to say that Bipolar is a bad diagnosis or in any way something shameful. As Marcus said in the episode, he knows many people with bipolar who have done wonderful things and achieved so much despite everything. It's just that bipolar is not what he has, or what I have.

I have so many mixed feelings about the biomedical model for treating mental illness. There are years of my life I will never get back due to overmedication. It took me so incredibly long to "unmask", a term for neurodivergent people to describe the experience of living authentically. It took years to trust myself into being whole, to not break myself to fit into neurotypical standards. But I am who I am today because of what I have suffered, and because of the strength I have built, slowly, over time.

Every time someone messages me or talks to me about how my blog resonates with them, my soul is lifted. Every time I learn about others suffering the same things I do, finding strength in the same broken pieces, I feel less alone. I gain strength to fight another battle, to live another day.

I spent years, decades even, hiding myself away. I felt so much shame for who I was, and so much worry about what I was not. I have suffered for too long in silence. It is time to heal out loud. 

And so, I am shouting from the rooftops: I AM HERE. I was here in the bad times and I will be here for all the good that is in store. I am listening, I am embracing, I am accepting-- all that I am, all I will be, and every connection I build through truth, through life, and through love.

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.