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.
Looking back, I see now how this unimaginable diagnosis came to pass. I started therapy before I could do long division, and I see now how much my parents cared. How much they wanted to understand me, to provide me with solace in an overwhelming world. It gave me small bits of peace, reminders of how deeply I was loved and how much my life mattered to everyone around me.
When I was twelve years old, my family traveled to the Abayudaya Jewish community in Uganda as part of my Bat Mitzvah project. I helped to raise thousands of dollars to build a neonatal clinic in the small village of Nabugoye, a place with people so different from me, but a place I strangely found home.
I was in seventh grade at this time, feeling more like an outsider in my own world than ever before. I wrote tangents in black and white composition notebooks, trying to find some kind of meaning through it all. Trying to find a piece of myself that would fit in the puzzle of normal preteen girls. I felt so lost.
I was scared of everything having to do with growing up. I hated the idea of puberty, hated everything to do with becoming older. I would watch my peers as they talked about their crushes, laughed too loud about Jersey Shore and middle school dances and MTV. I wanted none of it.
But time keeps on ticking, and my body kept on growing. This body I felt confused by, these feelings always overwhelming me. I kept trying to be small, to hold my emotions tightly to my heart.
And then, in December of my seventh grade year, we went to Africa. We approached this shockwave against all that was familiar and known. For once, my body was a literal outsider. My skin looked dramatic-- film noir against the dirt hills of Nabugoye.
And still, for some reason, I felt peace. I would sit on the rocks on the hill in the hot sun as the local children balanced their fingernails on mine. I'm not sure if they had never seen white people before, but we certainly were an oddity. Strangely, I felt understood.
I was different, but in a straightforward way. The connections I built with the children of the village, running and playing tag and picking them up and spinning them around-- this made sense to me. This was peace.
When you grow up feeling like an outsider, being different can be the first time you feel you belong.
Because these children didn't care about my angst, about my fear and sadness. And even if they did, we didn't speak the same language, so it made no difference. We communicated with hand signals, and mirroring, and trying for the best. We saw humanity reflected together, and in the purest form, I belonged. For once in my adolescent life, I felt seen, and safe, and valued. That feeling was like no other, and it would be years before I could catch it again.
When we came back to America, away from the children on the hill and the granola bars and the bottled water, I felt more alone than ever before. How could these young Ugandan children understand me when my peers barely respected my opinions in class? How could the lovely meals my mother cooked in our big kitchen with groups of synagogue friends feel less welcoming than beans and rice and mosquito nets?
Why did my laughter feel so hollow now? Why did my tears fall so frequently? Why did I feel more lost and alone than ever before?
This journey is long, and I will link here to the longer piece I wrote about the years following: the depression, the misdiagnosis, and the suffering. Doctors tried to silence this loneliness away, and in some ways, they did. I was given anti-psychotics and mood stabilizers, pills that I didn't want or need. My voice began to slur and my words began to shake. I lost my language. I lost my words. I lost my voice.
I see now how deeply I have held onto these lost pieces of myself. How strongly I now write, how proudly I speak about unexplainable pain.
I end here coming back to my twelve year old self. I have a message for her.
Hey little Rivi. It's me, the healed version of every girl you fought to hold onto. The amalgamation of all the pieces you needed, all the parts you wanted to hold. I am here today because of you.
Welcome to your future. Welcome to the place where every spot is community, where every space is belonging. It may be a while before you get here, but trust me-- you will arrive.
It will feel like sunshine after rain and open windows on summer nights. You will belong everywhere, and you will find your people.
You are loved for the awkward preteen you are, and now you are embraced as the neurodivergent adult you will be proud to be. I am the woman I am today because you fought to be here.
Welcome home.
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