A Year of Lessons; Cornflakes, Gravy & What… Happened…?

One of the most important things to differentiate in life, is the difference between what harms us, and what hurts us.

What is hurtful, isn’t always harmful.

And sometimes, what is hurtful, can be helpful.

But sometimes what is hurtful, is harmful.

In the words of the wise AA; “having the wisdom to know the difference”, is often not something you can be told, but have to experience. At least, for me. I can never be told anything. I have to feel it to the far edges of the experience, to know. Can that be harmful? Yes. Is it often hurtful? Yes. But has it been immensely helpful? Yes.

I have spent the last, who knows, 8 years, exploring the depths of this sentiment. Going, often, some would say ‘too’ far. But I have always gone too far. I will always go too far. I am someone who goes far. To the edges of all ends. I know no other way to operate.

“This is the shamanic dance in the waterfall. This is how magic is done. By hurling yourself into the abyss and discovering it’s a feather bed.”

I have immense resistance, immense immense resistance to sharing. Again, deciphering between — is this harmful? Or is this hurtful?

Does writing expressively and sharing with other humans make me uncomfortable? Yes. But this isn’t to be avoided, this is to jump into, with open arms. To avoid and resist the, endless flow of words, I seem to be inundated with — is harmful, to the soul of myself.

In my 8 years of exploring things to extremes, I have learnt a lot. More so, that with each, often intangible, lesson; that I have so much more to grasp. The Dunning-Kruger effect, the more you learn, the more you realise you don’t know. Perhaps that’s the perpetual pursuit. The moving is the end point. Because to stop is to die. Maybe the grasping is the illusion of an end. But I quite like to grasp, reach, search, seek, pursue. It’s in my very nature of being a mammal, and it’s in my very direct wiring of having an ADHD brain; there is never an end. The pursuing is the purpose, not the reaching of that I have pursued.

“Anyway, he didn’t care much about the finished product. It was the search and process in creating something that always excited him”. — A quote referring to Leonardo Da Vinci’s existence.

I bloody love, and have always loved, the deepest of satisfactions that comes from the building of (metaphorical) bricks. The process, the building, the creating of and into, something. To me, that has always been the point. I have always been someone to get fixated on goals that are so far beyond my current ability; because the possibility creates an excitement and drive in me I will never be able to convey. The journey of inner-exploration to reach a destination, with an immense pressure, deadline and purpose — to me, is the deepest, and most meaningful, way to exist. It’s like the inexplicable dance of mixing art and science. And you are the result of that mix, and you are in charge of that mix.

It’s why I fell in love with ultrarunning. Most things in life are predictable, tangible, calculated, a series of inputs to outputs, that can be understood relatively through means of overt sense. But what constitutes a human, to be able to run for 24 hours and beyond, up and down the mountains, in a severe caloric deficit, undergoing excruciating pain, fatigue, else — how do they continue? Why do they continue? It goes beyond the finely tuned formula of carbohydrate consumption, electrolyte intake, a progressively built aerobic base done with a solid training plan. Endurance is neural. Endurance, and our will, is down to something quite intangible. And I’ve always been fasincated with the intangible, that which we can’t describe. I’ve never had an interest in physics, or chemistry, or maths; the black and white; does or doesn’t. Which is funny because I think only in extremes of black and white, I make sense of the world and myself through a bottom-up way. But, I have always had an insatiable hunger to know. To my peril, sometimes. But to know what I am capable of, what are the edges, the limits, the outer periphery of my abilities, capabilities, experience? I mean this beyond the physical realm. For me, physical endeavours are the medium for which I can explore and express, my inner self. The mixing of the art and science thing. The outcome being: you.

Anyway. It’s not drunk professor time.

About the going to the edges, thing. I want to talk about my extreme indulgence in very opposing modalities.

I’m going to take you on a journey, and on that journey, I’m going to show you perhaps; what not to do, or, how to make something that’s hurtful, harmful, or — something to merely laugh at. I’m taking all 3. And please note, I would like to absolve any blame you may infer from this. This is a merely objective viewpoint and understanding on my, very, personal and unique experience. All the humans I have encountered on my path, have been signals to here. Painful, hurtful, harmful, else, sometimes the greatest message is discomfort.

I’d like to bring you to September 2023.

September 2023, I ran 110km in the Lakes. 20 hours and 25 minutes of proper ouchies, through immense storm, wind, darkness, else. And the last 20 miles, I was running on a very injured left knee. Why didn’t I stop? It never occurred to me to do so. Not because I’m the female replica of Mr David Goggins, but because, it genuinely never occured to me. I don’t stop. I don’t quit. I do what I say I will do. And nothing comes between that and I. And by the way, this isn’t always helpful. I eat the cake, I lick the plate, and then I eat the plate, and then sometimes experience the excruciating aftermath of eating a plate (think, big circular plate, coming out of your __). This isn’t a conscious choice, it’s my default. I do things, or I don’t.

I developed severe ITB syndrome, in my left knee. Which would result in me being unable to run for the next 15 weeks. Oops. My life revolved around running, the meaning I obtained from running, my time, running. Running was my means to express, not through catharsis, but through self-discovery, edges and understandings. As well as; mountains are just good for my soul. Running became this vehicle into my soul; far beyond the doings of life. Running connected to me something other than the grooves in my psyche. It introduced me to this bigness, this universal force. It was beyond me. I hope the day comes where there’s a medium to convey the felt sense, words don’t do it.

But, you see, I always felt ashamed and ‘wrong’ for this. For loving something so deeply. For being affected by something in it’s absence. I’d been meditating, and on a bit of an inner-search, for 2 years. It had, to put it bluntly, completely changed my life. I was no longer a victim to the endless stream of stuff. Which, having an ADHD brain, is really — endless, and fast. Fucking fast. Ideas, beliefs, thoughts, feelings, inputs, outputs. Totally, beautifully and devastatingly, relentless. My brain works very, very very fast. If I ever marry a rich man, I promise to divorce him immediately, steal all his money and invest it into paying a neuroscientist to objectively measure the speed of my brain. As well as getting a fully body MRI, because wow, I would LOVE to see and know the specifics and state of every single one of my soft tissues. Anyway. Learning to anchor myself, rest in my conscious awareness, and stop interfering with all the noise, and just let the noise be — totally and utterly changed my life. But. a=And here’s the but. I’m going to introduce you to a combination of stuff, that can make something that’s helpful > hurtful and eventually, harmful.

The ingredients to this cocktail that I would sell to no soul, are as follows:

1. ADHD (with a likely sprinkling of it’s opposite; autism); contributing over-enthusiasm, excitability, all-or-nothing, a requirement for rules, bottom-up thinking, black and white thinking with said rules and a stubborn, intense drive to do everything at 500%. Because, or else, what is the point? I have, just drank 3 coffees in the space of an hour, case in point.
2. A slight (large) developmental development of a slight (large) unfulfilled need to have an adult accept me, hear me and give me answers (add to the mix: a middle aged woman, and you’re flying, Hello Freud)
3. A very, very deeply engrained belief that I am wrong (the consequence of growing up with undiagnosed ADHD and immensely struggling with what works for everyone else, not working for me; and the ongoing reinforcement of: I am wrong), and therefore having little-no-ability to decipher between what’s helpful and hurtful and truthful and utter fucking bollocks, for me.
4. The icing on the cake that compounds the above: Having absolutely no knowledge of the above.

So, I took the meditation stuff, which I’ll refer to as monk stuff, to it’s extremes. To the point where, on an impulsive decision, I decided to get rid of my tenancy (which, was quite a big deal for me, I’d spent 14–20, living in someone else’s house; parents’ partners that were rarely friendly, friends families, sofas, else “home” was a foreign concept) , sell all of my things (which, I couldn’t be faffed with, so just threw away — cutlery? I’ll never need that again), and save up a lot, a lot of money to go to Spain for 3 months, to meditate for 15–20 hours a day, and become a monk. My lovely, monk friends, and also normal humans, took me in, and let me lodge with them. I was officially committed. And who doesn’t love the story of an extreme: I sold everything and became a monk. I mean, what a headline.

This achieved many things. It achieved the fulfilment of an urge, it satisfied the quest for extremes, it was in line with what I found meaningful, and finally — everyone around me was, constantly, reinforcing to me their amazement at my dedication and commitment. I never quite understood. If you do something, you do it? I didn’t, and couldn’t, quite grasp the concept of just meditating for 20–30 minutes a day and being more mindful of the noise. I was becoming a monk. I was one-pointed, focused and it just made so much sense to me. Further to this, there is an involvement in a community, a group of people that is akin to a family, something I’ve lacked in very crucial years — so it felt so right. So.. what.. went.. wrong?

Let’s go back to the timeline.

October 2023. I read a book, without detailing, made me acutely aware of some truths I’d never had someone else validate/understand. Absolving blame, a large proportion of my childhood, was, rather harmful. To put it bluntly, and to short-circuit writing a novel that I have no desire to do, I had to become an adult very, very fast. Cool story. But, this book brought some things to the surface for me. Which, of course, monk stuff, I just saw as noise. Except, I didn’t. There was a lot of unresolved feelings, emotions, experiences, and else. That, beyond my conscious will, needed compartmentalising and dealing with. Now a month into being injured, and the forecast for healing, not looking great — my sense of purpose had sort of gone. I equally felt, ashamed and guilty (which — we now put straight in the bin), for being affected by such. The price you pay for love, is grief. I was supposed to be detached, monk-like, not attach to things, not love things, not be affected by things.

But, I was affected. However, I didn’t let this happen. I tried to be, what I thought I was meant to be. A non-emotive, yin yang wang meat-machine. The teachers always said that pain is a choice. I always understood this, and directly experienced this, to a degree. When 60 miles into an ultra, my feet shredded to bits with blisters, swollen, aching, every step is fucking painful. But it doesn’t hurt when I put my attention elsewhere, or more excitingly, when a new blister appears; the pain changes and moves. My dance with physical pain through extreme endurance, was a medium to learn and teach myself the ever-changing dance of emotional pain. And, it did. And that still remains with me. The thing is, though, my neurodiverse mode of operandi has no room for nuance. It’s black and white. “Pain is a choice”, is a direct rule and concept with no room for maneuvering. And this creates immense suffering when you’re in pain, but you know you don’t have to be. But you are. But you could just not be. The pain of cognitive dissonance, incongruence, and total fucking confusion. And here begins; the getting very, very fucking lost in a very, very dark forest.

My close friend Kate, observing me throughout our soulful and not-gay friendship (this now sounds gay, we’re only naked with each other on 80% of our encounters), mentioned to me, a few months prior, that she thought I had ADHD. I laughed in her face, and was equally — quite offended. Of course, I researched. And.. oh… My whole life, failures, struggles, challenges, shameful everythings: described. Damn. There really is no unique experience, is there? I mentioned it to someone else, who quickly dismissed it. So I kept it back to myself, and put it elsewhere.

Soon enough, I, impulsively of course — decided to pursue a diagnosis.

November 2023. I was diagnosed with severe ADHD, aka — I won the test, and got the highest marks, yay! This was a little bit of a moment for me, but otherwise not much happened from this. Monk stuff. Pain is a choice, everything is a story, my feelings aren’t real. Shame. Am I identifying with ADHD? Although well intended, after sharing this with a teacher, they expressed to me that I shouldn’t believe in this, because it will get in the way of me experiencing peace. As if, having a developmental and structural difference in how my brain operates, processes and experiences, is a mere fact of belief. Look, I’m all for the notion of the massif (French) impact of what self-fulfilling ideals can create, all for it, but not quite this one. However, at the time, this added to my contradiction. I’ll bring you back to the ingredients of a bad cocktail.

a) black and white thinking and the requirement for rules

b) extreme unfulfilled need of having an adult female take interest in and guide me

c) always being ‘wrong’ — and having no natural filtering process for “nah mate, thanks, but I don’t agree”

I was confused. I genuinely, could, and knew exactly how to, genuinely, be at home in myself and not suffer (pain yes, suffering no, the same as hurt isn’t avoidable, harm perhaps is). The meditation, my direct experience, my inner space of presence changed my life. But there was this huge fat life changing revelation and reason for my 22 years of pure and utter suffering, prior to getting into meditating. I had severe ADHD that had never been identified, and I’d never, ever had any help for it. Immense inner conflict. Because, I had now adopted the ‘rule’ that it was just a belief, but also felt the understanding of how my brain works, to be hugely helpful in my existence. But what someone else says, vs what I feel, is right. Because you have to surrender to the knowledge of the teacher, and what I feel, think, and else; is just my ego. Which, is just noise, which, I discard. And so: confusion. Such, confusion. Here I am saying, it’s not necessarily the monk stuff that is harmful, it’s helpful, but it can be hurtful and it can be harmful (and it was); without the above ingredients being understood and accounted for. On, or off. Black and white thinking. Lack of self-understanding. Lack of “no thanks pal”.

(to note: Attention-Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. Stupidly named. My brain (and all researched ADHD brains) does not have a deficit of attention. I have far too much attention, with a poor ability to appropriately direct this attention onto the desired, or appropriate, thing. I’ve often described my brain feels like a toilet bowl. Bear with. It’s wide, gaping even (what a word), open, there is no filtering process for the input, or output, there is just a wide, gaping hole, where everything and anything can, and does, come in. Of which equal and opposite amounts, go out. Whereas, I’d argue those without ADHD, have a brain that’s more like a toilet roll tube — more narrow, with maybe, a slight sieve covering 25% of it. Yes, a toilet roll tube with 25% covered with a rice sieve. Now, that’s an image I bet you have never, ever, even imagined before? I like to fly the flag for diversity in thinking, as you can see. With said toilet roll sieve tube on your head, it’s arguably quite light, relatively easy to direct and point at said thing you’re wanting to pay your attention to. As it’s quite light, you can quite easily resist the force of gravity trying to weigh it down (aka; other thoughts, ideas, senses, else). Now, you still have the gaping effect, of 75% of this tube wide open, but it’s narrow, smaller in circumference, so only a limited amount can go in and go out. With the added bonus, of a sieve, of which, you have some conscious will over opting said thing, out, of your attention/awareness. Say, an annoying noise, your sieve goes — no thanks, no room at the inn, or — if your sieve is busy, your narrow-toilet roll tube, has no room for anything else). Everything comes in my giant fucking toilet bowl head, as fast as it leaves.

Around this point, the love of my life, the lady that has been by my side in every painful and joyous moment (not Kate, we’re not actually together, we have only cuddled in bed a few times, as friends): Pig, my dog, became very unwell. £800 on vet bills later, and still no answer, but a proposition in the air that it was something fatal. Awesome. Not only was my entire inner foundation being shaken, my dog was about to die. Great.

Anyway.

This same month, after much encouragment from my friend Kate. I saw a therapist.

“So, what brings you here?”

“Well, I’m not really sure. I’ve just been diagnosed with severe ADHD, so, I guess I’d like to understand that more. And mainly, I’m just really curious. And feel perhaps there’s some things I could have a greater understanding of. I’m not in a crisis, I’m doing good — I know how to regulate and manage myself, I intentionally build and create my life to allign with what’s important to me, I have both internal and external anchords xyz. Curiosity, I guess? And perhaps there’s some things I could do with talking about, like the whole childhood stuff, sort of thing.

A tiny bit more blah blah blahing, and I was shown a book, with:

“COMPLEX PTSD RECOVERY GUIDE” staring directly into my soul, with the words “yeah, so, this is what we’re working with. Complex PTSD. See you next week, same time?”

Oh. I walked out to my car, the howling and bitter wind of November in England attacking my face. I climbed into my car and stared into space. Now I was even more conflicted. What will the monks say to this? Pain is a choice? It’s all just a story? Telling your story does nothing but keep you stuck in it? But I chose to come here, I had a drive to know, to understand, to be heard. Confusion. Contradiction. Utterly torn.

I felt I had been acknowledged. I felt I had been heard. Having a rather large deficit in this, amongst, never ever dealing with traumatic things, was quite something. Having someone say “that is bad”. Ectasy like. Not to mention, the person was female, I will say no more. I drove back, navigating the dark roads and my whirling thoughts. A mixture of conflicting everything. But one that dominated: anger.

I felt so angry. I felt so angry that upon getting home — still living with my very kind monk friends, and friends, normal people, but monks, I, still with my basically-still-do-not-hike-or-run-broken knee, went to a giant hilly and muddy field, in the complete dark, in rain and wind, sprinted up and down this for an hour, intermittently screaming. With an equal awareness as to, what on earth am I doing? This a) isn’t good for my knee, and b) I am indulging in feelings, this is ‘bad’, stop? and c) but I can’t help myself? It felt like an outpouring of 22 years of anger. I felt like a destructive force. I knew this was the beginning of something. I felt split. I knew how to be content and not be a victim of the endless barage of feelings, thoughts, fears and else; so why wasn’t I doing it? It felt like a total act of rebellion. But a shameful one. This act of, revisiting your past, reacting to feelings, thoughts, else- had been described by teachers, and all the spirutual texts I’d devoured, as basically intentionally setting yourself on fire. Why was I setting myself on fire?

I wasn’t sure. But I was. And it fucking hurt.

December 2023. I now want you to imagine cornflakes, mixed with gravy. I hope your intial reaction was that of mild disgust. It’s not that the cornflakes are bad (frosties are better), or that gravy is bad (sometimes, it can be), it’s that the mix of the two, isn’t quite compatible. That was the result of me interacting with my previous therapist-therapy experience, meditation teachers/monks, mentors, friends, parents, humans — else, and not having, how my brain processes and operates, accounted for, as well as — other words we won’t go into; think cornflakes and gravy, absolve blame, but recognise outcome = not good. The cocktail of the ingredients above, combined with modalities not accounting for how I operate, and myself unable to decipher = not good. I would like to make clear: ABSOLVING BLAME. It’s like we’ve all been trying to make a cake, without knowing what th fuck is this cake we’re trying to make? One of us doesn’t have any arms, and the other is blind. Cornflakes with gravy.

Now I want you to imagine this: Groynes. Not the meaty type. From my limited memory of the sexiest of subjects known to get anyone going, Geography. Groynes are a coastal defence, with the purpose of preventing longshore drift, where sediment gets carried along and up the beach, causing erosion, bad, or something like that. If you put your Groynes on the beach to prevent erosion with the goal of saving the beautiful seaside town, sure — the groynes are ugly, but it prevents the seaside town from being eroded. Trade offs, but the outcome is acheived, the defence is necessary and helpful.

If you put the Groynes on the beach in Marske-By-The-Sea, however, with the hope that it will help the tribes in Brazil revolutionise how they cook their rice? Then, it’s not a very helpful act, when in reference to the overall goal. We all need Groynes. Even Goggins. I have spent 22 years of my life, aware of the goal and, partially aware, of how to get there, but with constant interference and noise of what you are doing is wrong, and, you cannot do things like that, to which, the answer after my questioning I’ve only ever received, is “because, you just can’t”. Often coming from people, with different goals and more importantly — different needs, to me.

I have taken on, a lot, of unhelpful ideas and beliefs about myself and how I should live — and most importantly, that how I live is wrong. And that what I need to do, to live, is also — wrong. And what is ‘wrong’? Wrong is shame. And what is shame? One of the most harmful, isolating, self-defeating human emotions. And what do we do with shame? We put it in the fucking bin, where it belongs. My groynes are built for my goal. My groynes are built for my needs. My groynes are intentional. I have to consciously create and hold into place, every second, of everyday. Why do I have groynes?? Because or else I will get taken by the waves. The noise. The endless stream of stuff, ideas, beliefs, thoughts, feelings, inputs, outputs. Which, as aforementioned (I FUCKING LOVE THAT WORD) with ADHD, is totally, beautifully and devastatingly, relentless.

TO THE POINT.

In this, we’ll call it, not-so-helpful (quite harmful), therapy experience, my ADHD, wasn’t accounted for. And all of my behaviours, interests, enthusiasm, humour, abilities, everything that makes a human, a human — was, on the most part, incorrectly, pathologised as an extreme trauma response. So, shamefully, I got rid of all of my groynes, all of my defences. Because when I do things, I do them. All percevied defense mechanisms to keep me safe? Ah. They’re defences. Get rid!

So, December 2023. I, in me fashion, and in the ‘being a good student’ fashion, surrendered all of my beliefs, ideas, and everything — and took on the words of my therapist as truth. Even though, it didn’t quite feel right. The ‘not feeling right’, and me disagreeing, I was told, was just another defence. Interesting. I guess the path to my core self is painful? But the thing was, in this process, I wasn’t unravelling my true nature, my true core self, I was deviating very far from it, and getting further and further lost and entangled, with the ever harmful messaging that “It will get worse before it gets better”. The danger of openly trusting an authority. There lies an abuse in power, whether intentional or not. And there lies a danger in straying from the centred space of yourself.

Like the good student I am, I surrendered control, and trusted. And here, we go. Lesson number one of 4,650: Sometimes, people don’t know what’s best for you, and this isn’t you being defensive. You are actually totally within your right to say “yeah, no thanks pal, I don’t agree”.

I read a lot of books I was recommended to read, in true ADHD fashion, I went all in. My therapist gave me a book, a 300 page book outlining the deep flaws of my character and the fatality of my trauma, to ‘have a look at’. Ha! Have a look at? I spent the entire night, and following day in every break I had, reading the book. I walked in the following week, “how did you find it?”, “yeah, I read the whole thing”, “oh, you weren’t suppoesed to read the whole thing”.

To summarise, what I learnt through this endless reading, misaligned therapy, and my cool-sounding but incredibly harmful position of “I am wrong, everyone is right, I must learn from everyone” (another monk stuff and self-development stance I took in the extremes, again, no nuance in here), is this:

Every part of myself is fucked up.

I need 3 years of intense therapy and of spiralling into the depths of depression and grief until I find my core self.

My smile, laughing and humour isn’t real, it’s a trauma response.

My drive isn’t because I’m passionate, but because I’m traumatised.

I’m not feminine enough, my ambition is trauma, I need to be more whole.

Do not ask other people how they’re doing, because that’s people pleasing, and that’s trauma too.

I am forgetful, not because I have ADHD and the working-memory arguably as bad as my Grandma with Alzheimers, but because I’m traumatised.

I will not go on.

And btw — the above, is not true.

But I internalised it all, and surplus more, surplus surplus surplus more.

I guess I wanted to experience my ‘true’ self, and, I guess the Hero is prepared to face whatever they must, to get there, right?

Even if that’s the depths of unnecessary depression? It’s supposed to get worse before it gets better. I could have done with someone explaining the nuance of this to me, though.

And apparently everything I did in life, wasn’t because I wanted to, or because I enjoyed it, or because it was good for me — but because I was deeply traumatised and I would never truly heal from it. Safe to say, this wasn’t particularly helpful for me. And safe to say, this was utterly internally shattering, and totally fucking confusing.

It sort of felt like I was going mad. Everything I questioned, whether that be the therapy stuff, or the monk stuff — it was either me operating out of a defence and that’s why I didn’t agree, or, it was just my ego, and I needed to listen to the teacher and surrender to nothingness. And the thing is, both of these teachers; therapist and monks, had totally fucking opposing views. Who the fuck am I? Apparently my true self was just a depressed hopeless mess. And the other viewpoint was that my true self was that of presence and no trauma and no ADHD and no stories. Both extremes, both rules, existing in my mind. But I have never, ever once been either. Yes, I have struggled and suffered. But I’ve always, always had this unwavering sense of eternal optimism of if i just try harder, and hey, having ADHD means I get really, really fucking interested and excited about things. I am not apathetic. I have never ever once been apathetic.

As humans we need to know, at least some things, with some level of grounded certainty. So I had the choice, do I take on the depressed hopeless mess, or do I become a monk? Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, the stance of depressed hopeless mess, was being validated by someone who resembled a maternal figure. Uh oh.

January 2024.

The time had come. I had chosen to go to Spain for a month, not 3. I had been told that meditation of more than 5 minutes, is BAD for trauma of my level (even though, it was helpful for me). And here I was about to go away for 30 days, with my eyes closed for the entirety, going inward. Confused as fuck. Throughout this process, I’d stopped doing the things that were helpful for me. I began to believe all the stuff. I felt ashamed of everyone of the parts of myself; including the drive to go to the gym, to learn, to connect, to serve. Because this was all just trauma? And I began to utterly, utterly fucking hate myself. Of which I feel fortunate to say, has never really been a stance I’ve had. Despite my challenges and adverse experiences, I’ve always had a relatively strong sense of, hey, no, I’m okay. I’ve always quite liked myself in that I’ve rarely, ever, swayed from my values and I’ve always done and acted in accordance with what feels true and right for me.

Here’s a fun fact about the ADHD brain; it can hyperfixate on things. Unfortunately, this was now my hyperfixation. It was an unsolved puzzle. I mean, it was the essence of me, my existence and the shattering of everything I’d thought to be true. But the monotropic part of my brain, that according to some an assessment i did online, I am 78% more autistic than most autistic people in this way; can be incredibly one-pointed.

So, I went to Spain. No longer with curiosity and excitement to explore consciousness and dance with the moving aspects of oneself, but now, to ‘heal’ myself. you’re not broken. It was reinforced, on the retreat. But, I literally, am? I have been informed, I am. And that it needs to be fixed, and the only way to fix it is to feel fucking terrible. And, well, I’m not one to shy away from necessary discomfort?

And of course, if I need to feel fucking terrible to fix it, then, why not do that 500% and short-circuit the time it takes to be fixed?

I cut my 1 month short, and left after a very distressing 2 weeks of awfulness. I felt so confused. This WAS helpful for me. This IS helpful for me. But I’m not supposed to do it because of trauma? But what? Where is this trauma? I then flew to Malaga, and spent 2 weeks alone in an apartment, reading books about trauma, doing trauma meditations, feeling my feelings, immensely ruminating, writing about how awful I felt. I had no more joy, no more ambition; I’d stopped letting myself ‘indulge’ in that, as I didn’t want to act out of trauma? I had lost myself in my entirety. I had literally set myself on fire, and I was being told this was necessary. But I knew, I just knew, it wasn’t. Yes, get burnt, heal the wound, but don’t fucking set yourself on fire. The core of myself is not my ashes.

I came home from Malaga, refreshed not being the word. And here, we continue to, now a little funny, wandering into the very wrong part of the woods. And when you’re lost, but you’re sort of aware as to why you’re lost, but also still unsure how not to be lost, you seek validation and someone telling you ‘it’s okay to be lost’, rather than someone saying ‘hey bro, here’s the map, get a fucking move on’. And all the thousands of words I’d read about how broken I am, said that trying NOT to be lost, was wrong. That I need to fall so far down to ‘heal’. And yes, I take things literally. I do things by the rulebook. I discard my intuitive knowing, and adopt: the rest. It’s hilarious to read, and to reflect on examples of this; but my brain really does work like this.

And here, I’m going to propose to you:

How To Be A Depressed Hopeless Mess And Make Everyone Worried And Confused As To: What Happened To Mia? (February 2024-May 2024):

With regard to the above, and in pursuit of ‘healing’ my ‘wounds’, and in true fashion of myself doing things 100%, here’s what I did. Please be prepared, and please do not follow this for a script on how to live. I would highly advise AGAINST.

And also, here is what happens when you combine cornflakes with gravy. Aka — neurodivergence needs to be accounted for. But it’s also, hilarious.

1. I stopped setting goals and working towards a purpose. Because, that was trauma. The real me was apparently hopeless and sad. So I need to be the real me. I need to try to be sad.
2. I need to stop being busy. It’s trauma. I need to sit with myself more. So I stopped doing things. I’m not joking. My spare time was spent, me sat with myself, feeling sad. Refraining from doing things, becuase that was distraction and bad. I went from my life being full with purpose, to my life being empty. Apparently that was ‘healing’? It gets worse before it gets better.
3. “You need to feel your feelings, check in with your body, it’s filled with grief” — okay. So what did, and I’m not joking, every second of everyday become about? Being absolutely totally obsessed with my feelings. Hyperfixation who? Having spent 2 years meditating and changing my life from learning I can direct my attention, to this, was quite astounding. Being one, a human, and two, neurodiverse; I feel a fucking lot. I go to Tesco on a Sunday at 10am and I feel the noise and the lights. I was told this is trauma. So while previously, sure, unpleasant, I’d go, and put some music in and just get on with it. I now hated myself, hated Tesco, felt ashamed, and worse: magnified this feeling, which is actually just sensory overload (because I am neurodiverse), and this feeling became a problem, something I needed to fix. Some broken part of myself, some fragmented part of my inner child that was abandoned that is afraid of the meat isle of Tesco. IT IS NOT TRAUMA. Guess what: no matter how many times you expose yourself to sensory overload, it doesn’t cure you of your autism. Cornflakes and gravy. This spread into every single feeling I ever had. Prior to this, I had worked so immensely hard into how I perceived my feelings and stress, and saw it as either just energy passing through (and so, to not magnify it and or attach to it), or, as a helpful signal that something is either exciting, or not aligned for me. I.e, before running ultras, I would be so excited I felt like I was actually going to explode. I didn’t once percevie this through a negative lens of being “anxious” but that, I was literally, so excited I was going to explode (which, I was, thankfully — I never actually exploded).
4. I stopped doing everything that was good for me. Examples include, but not limited to: I have always refrained from ‘scrolling’ on social media, not because I’m a superior being or David Goggins, but because — it’s not conducive to my goals, and it fucks with my already in a deficit, of dopamine, brain. And, with how my brain is, when I decide not to do something, I just don’t. But, apparently a trauma response, control, not letting myself ‘fall’. So I did. I scrolled and scrolled. My news feed was perfectly curated to educate me on trauma, depression and the awfulness of existence, I ate it up like a beautifully well seasoned chicken leg. Turns out, a lot of people my age are also sad, so what better way to connect than send eachother endlessly devastatingly sad instagram reels? Perpetual cycle, not a good one.
5. I just stopped taking care of myself. I’ve always been super interested, probably as a way to self-manage my undiagnosed ADHD, but also, I’m just bloody interested, in biohacking and life optimisation. I was rigid with my sleep routine: no phone in bed, ever, not negotiable. I went to bed on time. I would read, journal on my wins, and meditate, then sleep. I would wake up, not go on my phone for the first hour, get 5–10 mins of sunlight, have a cold shower, journal my intentions, meditate and get on with my day — I loved this. It worked so well for me. But, I stopped all of this, because… I had to let myself fall? Admittedly, although this doesn’t feel great to share, I also stopped eating properly. Identifying with being ‘depressed’, which was reinforced was my true nature, and with all the books I’d read: your appetite goes, food is less interesting. Well, food was interesting and my appetite was still there, but I just stopped eating properly. I wanted to do it properly(?). I lost care. I started skipping lunch, developed migraines, else, honestly, total fucking disaster and it all contributed to this hot mess. Soon enough, I did lose my appetite and appeal for food, no surprise.
6. All my days consisted of was reading about trauma, feeling my trauma, trying to heal my trauma, every waking second being ashamed of myself, and talking and writing about it. HYPERFIXATION. I think you get the point… not.. ideal..

I could go on. But, I won’t.

I stopped doing all the things I knew were good for me. Not because I just didn’t want to do them, I did. But because I was told they were wrong and bad and not my true self. And to use the groynes analogy, I was told my groynes were wrong. But nobody ever asked me why I had my groynes there? Nobody ever considered that my groynes, need to be different to their groynes? Groynes. GOGGINS NEEDS GROYNES TOO.

And guess what, turns out, when you stop doing the things that you’ve worked so hard to integrate into your life because they give you contentment, space, meaning, purpose and autonomy..

Things don’t go so well. I became super cynical. With all my efforts to understand people, be open minded, and connect with others being ‘trauma’. I was just an angry, depressed, hot mess.

But: I knew this wasn’t me. I knew this wasn’t the unravelling of my true self. I knew there was something wrong. It sort of felt like I was watching myself continuously set myself on fire, all whilst holding a fire extinguisher, but somehow, and for some reason, not using it.

This progressed, and progressed, into a spiralling of badness. But you need to feel worse before you get better, right? But the thing is, I was actually.. genuinely.. alright before this whole thing started.. and no, it isn’t because I was in denial and lying. I was alright, in fact: more than alright. Yeah, I needed assistance and education and acceptance on how having ADHD makes me different, how to accommodate myself, some help with the past, managing relationships, maternal abandonment, you know. But this was setting myself on fire. And watching myself, be on fire, whilst holding a fire extinguisher, feeling totally confused, but far too literal and overly trusting.

I eventually started taking anti-depressants, which surprise surprise, made me feel approximately, just an estimate 456% times worse. Apathy to a thousand. No appetite whatsoever. My thoughts turned up to 500%, all loud, negative, language based (I primarily think in images and abstract). I had an influx of very unpleasant thoughts, along the lines of taking my own life. It was like my brain had been switched into an entirely different setting. And not just that, but I’d now lost 5kg, couldn’t sleep, started having panic attacks, and god — the list goes on. After 4 weeks, I came off them, despite the constant iteration from others, although again — well intended, to stick with it, it gets worse before it gets better. Who knows the mechanics of this. Apparently ADHD brains have on average higher serotonin levels, so perhaps that, and or, and or both — I don’t think I was, at all, neurochemically depressed.

I.. was… fine… before… this?

If felt like everyone and everything was leading me further astray from myself, and that which I fundamentally know to be true.

There are some points I’d like to make to round this up (because I need to round this up).

The first one being to make it clear, that with the above, I’m not by any means saying that depression is a choice, or that those who suffer in any way mentally, need to just ‘stop’. My experience is that of nuance, and personal. And perhaps a representation of what can go wrong when you try to be neurotypical, when you have raging ADHD (which is more than just ‘oh hey look a squirrel!).

Secondly — echo chambers are dangerous.

I, in fashion of myself, went all in. Therapy, support groups, books, podcasts, writing, poetry, conversations — everything was revolved around how fucking awful life Is, was and how trauma will ruin my life and I’ll never be XYZ. I picked up and internalised so, so, so many narratives that were never mine. My world became very small. It’s scary how this happened, but being in an echo chamber does that. There’s 100% a place for all of the above, perhaps when the issue being addressed is the actual issue at hand, but there is also a grave danger when you combine the neurodivergent mind with the above. Yes, I have experiened trauma. I have had challenging experiences that stay with me and affect how I feel, react, and else. But this is 5% of what it was being made out to be. The danger when you surround yourself with other people who too, are not in the best place, is that it’s easy to keep pulling eachother down, and it almost becomes cathartic, and addicting sort of catharcism.

Thirdly — being misunderstood and misinterpreted when there is a power dynamic, can be very harmful

Absolving blame. But, cornflakes and gravy. And having the ingredients mentioned above. Very dangerous. Of course, necessary, for me to have the deepest levels of understanding I do now, and more importantly — to stand on my own fucking legs and say “hey, no thanks”. And equally, it lead me to meeting a human I’m very grateful for and has and is helping me in wyas I never new possible. But I believe this wasn’t wholly necessary. It wasn’t hurtful, it was harmful. However, I’m grateful to now have been able to translate this into helpful. And hey, I now hold an abundance of specialised knowledge about complex trauma and the multiple ways it can manifest. More useless knowledge in my brain, which I would love to replace with the answer to — What is the biggest Pigeon to exist on earth? Do you know the answer? I would love to know

Fourthly — to consume with skepticism, and develop a filtering process and or an external party who understands you, to help — especially if you’re neurodiverse and or — me.

I took the self-help and monk stuff, concept very seriously. Of course. Black and white. “Surrender everything”. I did. Teachers, therapists — they’re 100% right, I’m 100% wrong. Books, podcasts, everyone else — they’re 100% right, I’m 100% wrong. There’s a safety in having your groynes. They’re there for a reason. Know them, make them, replace when necessary, but for the love of God, don’t just get rid of them.

Fifthly — decipher between what hurts, what harms and what helps.

I thank insert annonymous wondrous human for these ideas, but — it’s quite imporant. I make my rules. There is no right or wrong, or good or bad. There are trade offs, there are consequences, and I am totally allowed to be and do me.

The above things: therapy, monk stuff, self-help, else: are all HELPFUL.

But think nature:nurture; the combination of the two to make a whole. Think science and art. Think love and realism. Both need to be addressed, accounted for, understood and worked with. Too much love, and you have delusion, too much realism, and you have cynicism. Too much science, and you have rigidity and a narrow horizon, too much art and you have lack of principles and guidance. Too much nature and you have a self-fulfilling realm of determinism, too much nurture and you ignore your innate basic gifts and challenges that acknowledgement of; can make your life more smooth, great, good and great. We need both and all.

So there is no criticism to any of the above. There is no blame; remember, absolved. There is a recognition of cornflakes and gravy.

But as mentioned earlier, often discomfort is out greatest teacher. The last year, whilst tremendously, excruciatingly and soul-shatteringly painful and makes me cringe when I think about some of the conversations, perspectives, else I had.. — has been purposeful, and has lead me to a place in myself I have yearned and hoped for, since the smallest of ages. My unwavering sense of commitment and relentless eternal optimism and trust; is something I will not let go of. In fact, I don’t think I can. But it definitely wavered. That shit is being tightly held in my chest and I will never let that go.

And of course, many other things, modalities, tools, thing, else, that I’ve not addressed here, another day, because I’ve now been writing for 6 hours and my trapezieus feels like it’s about to literally melt, from the burning sensation of that yacky upper back nerve pain from typing for so long. There is always an inherent dissatisfaction with writing, because I cannot articulate my entire brain, but at least I’m a little less constipated now. Lol. Acceptance of the restlessness of the dance of acceptance of the restlessness. I do not end.

So —

To answer the leading question:

What the fuck happened to Mia Oldroyd?

(I write that in jest, and yes; it is weird referring to myself in third person and YES I know that this wasn’t the dominating thought of the global population)

Mia Oldroyd is doing pretty good.

My life is not empty.

As of next week, I begin my 12 month training block for an Ironman. A 2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike ride and then run a marathon, all in one go. Sounds fun. And seriously, the idea of building them bricks for 12 months, falling into the dance of a physical endeavour; wow — soul excitement. Endurance is my medium. It’s beyond the physical. I also can’t swim. And I hate bikes. But there we go. It sounds easy. It’ll be reet. Hopeless optimism.

I am running my Personal Training & Coaching business — with immense YES feelings. It’s fun, engaging and I am just loving being a holding hand for humans to mitigate against the mortality of existence. Making women strong. No burpees. Fuck to the diets. Yes.

I am beginning a 16 week course in 2 weeks, to become an ADHD Coach & Practitioner, to help others with ADHD manage and thrive with ADHD. So that’s fun.

I am working in a both very effective, amusing and soul-feeding way, with a therapist (different human to previously alluded); exploring, navigating and making a framework for my living of neurodivergence. Of which, 10/10 trip advisor rating. Or 5* restaurant rating. Idk what I’m saying. My shoulders bloody hurt. OUCH.

After a long time of no-contact, and doing, the rough inner work and necessary shit; I am back in touch with my Mum, and Dad, and fostering a new found relationship. Heart warming, and totally and utterly relishing in the fact of being able to babble to someone without considering their feelings. Parents. Turns out, quite helpful. A little late, and missed the time slot, but I’ll take it.

I am back meditating, connecting with those and that which helps, with a filtering process and understanding of my inner operations; less confusion, more goodness.

I am committing to outpouring the endless flow of words in me, and I am committing to wrtiting more. It’s my way of being. I need to. And I won’t get lost in the mechanics anymore.

I have a standing desk with a walking treadmill, I wake up at 5am, I get fucking excited about things, sometimes too much, I get overwhelmed by tasks, I struggle to understand the rules of existence, lights are often far too bright, I love people, I love the world, I love how my brain operates, I write lots, I read lots, I move lots, I swear a lot, I get overly enthusiastic about a lot, I take on far too much, my brain goes so fucking fast, sometimes I get paralysed by the endless stream of stuff, the restlessness will never end, but hey, it’s alright.

And finally —

No matter my efforts to try and believe that everything is bad, and that nothing happens for a reason because it’s all bad and I don’t deserve it and insert the rest; it’s not my feeling. They’re not my words. That’s not my sense. It takes effort to maintain that. When I stop trying to maintain something that isn’t there, it dies. The lens of denial, naivety, stupidity, suppression or what; I can’t rid myself of this trust and this knowing. The universal force, whatever you want to call it. The Taoi, else. There is something much greater that I trust, and I believe aligns the stuff of life in a perfect manner.

Anyway LOL that is so fucking LONG.

Thanks to all the wonderful humans in my life I have the immense gratitude for existing, and equal amounts of oops and apolgies for sort of dissapearing or a while. With special thanks to said annonymous lady, the Kate-not-my-girlfriend-CB& my Piggy wiggy wig wig. And finally; no one is blind, no one lacks arms, and I know what fucking cake I’m making!

I want to leave you with something I wrote, the day before my birthday just gone, August 15th. Thanks for reading. New fun way of being: not apologising for existing. Read if your brain hasn’t already fallen out of your ears. Mine has.

The below, is the end:

There is no end point. The end point is — death? Perhaps the restlessness that is, can be celebrated and utilised without the incessant pressure of resolving for an end. Perhaps, ‘utilised’, meaning — devouring the joy of the doing, the action, the preceding moments to the next. Present or not, perhaps my purpose is to pursue. And in that undertaking, the immensity of curating, collecting and actioning — is to make it my life’s mission to meet, help and give to other creative minds, like mine — tools, strategies and else, to thrive. Not survive. To truly, genuinely, thrive — with the gift of creativity and restlessness bestowed on us.

Even ‘when’, I configure the ‘answer’ to which I search for, complete the project I invest in, get the thing, experience, mode, way of being I desperately pine for.. the answer, the resolve, the resting, the stopping of creating and building.. is… decaying, dying. The ‘thing’ isn’t it. The ‘drive of the attainment of the thing’ is. And I have always not cared much about the finished product (just look at the angle of my frames I’ve put up in my flat). I love the act and process of the structured, progressive and continuous building of bricks. The process of learning through every experience that I have, perhaps, IS the point. Not the end point of the articulation of the lesson. I know this is wildly obvious, “it’s in the journey not the destination” — as written in everyone’s kitchen, and spoused by those who live by anything but that (the human race), however, I feel I now interpret this in a different sense. In that happiness and contentment for me, feels futile. Obvious. But for me, there are some minuscule yet grand dominating pillars of ‘not there yet’ and or sometimes; ‘wrong with me’ — and these are founded on the inner restlessness that presents mentally, physically, socially, emotionally. So?

I decide I will stop striving for the restlessness to end. And I decide that in deciding to stop, I can’t stop. The striving for the ending of the restlessness, is the restlessness. Encompassing that which contains and that which is containing; is all so circular. To get out of the loop, is to die. It’s to not be alive and living with all my humanness. And even if, and when, I ‘let go’ and ‘decide’ to consciously recognise and consciously decide to stop striving for ‘it’ to end, and loosen my mind’s grip on the “this needs to change I am wrong” — that even then, it doesn’t go away. And so maybe the acceptance isn’t the acceptance of total and utter inner restlessness, but the acceptance OF the restlessness OF the dance of acceptance…

There are 4 stages I see.

There is, one, I try to change my set self, I have tried with all my might; harmful — so I reject this. There is, two, I try to accept my set self, with ‘accept’ being nebulous, confusing and conflated with ‘it going away’ / not being bothered by ‘it’, I recognise this too, is perhaps, futile. And; I have tried this, with all my might. So I reject this. The third, is that I fall victim to it, by trying to ignore my restlessness and be ‘normal’ and ‘calm’ and ‘still’ and trying to not try to try to not try to accept. I have tried this, equally. I now too, reject this. It’s like trying to pretend the sun doesn’t exist. Try or do not, the sun exists. Look at it or don’t, the sun exists. The very nature of myself is trying. I have tried; all 3. So the fourth, I present is: fuck acceptance, or perhaps, my conflated confused idea of what it means, how it should feel, what it should allow for, and learn Japanese because they have way better words. But; to just be restless. And to — act. And to try. To my peril, or not. To throw myself into everything, as I do, with the landscape wide and open to learn, through introspective means; which, I can’t help but do. However to learn in the inevitable act of doing and trying, the ways to try and do more effectively for me. Rather than trying to rid of the trying, or rid the doing, or rid the restlessness of striving. And perhaps, to ‘accept’ and better: expect, not pre-determining my experience with filters, but expecting myself to be where I am, and to expect, and wish for: nothing less. To see life as a big, constant, experiment.

I remember once hearing Matthew McConaughey say “life is not about getting to the top, but seeing how many staircases you can climb”. That resonated with me. Because, it feels disingenuous to espouse that I shall not strive for the goal for it’s pointless and us humans should just be and the capitalist, patriarchal, goal driven society sucks. Yet equally I’ve always felt conflicted at my love for the process and my anticlimactic sense of dissatisfaction and nothingness upon completion. But the reality is, I love climbing staircases, I love the act of the climbing, the pursuing of the chasing. And too, “Sometimes I see so much beauty it hurts” — everything has always provided such profound meaning, wonder, revelation, pain, introspection, passion — and I literally, cannot prevent that. And I do not do it to try and come across as a profound meat machine, it, just, happens, and, I, can’t, help, it. I get on a plane and I feel and ache with the significance of how incredible flying is, how insane humans are, I am an animal in a chain of evolution, with equal amounts of hilarity at imagining what would happen if I just, fell out the window? To immense peace at being in the clouds, to the bigness of imagining where all these strangers are going, I wonder where they’re from, how they’re feeling, what they think. Things, everything, just creates this: endless flow of words in me. And i have known, something, for a long time, but never quite found my means to express that, something. I don’t know what that something is, but I do know, and will make a promise to myself — that, at 23, I will make a commitment to allowing and devouring my restlessness. I will commit to using it. If for any reason, for the mere reason of minimising the constipation of my soul, to allow for the endless flow of words. I won’t get lost in the mechanics of making anymore. I’ll let myself get lost in the endless restlessness of myself.

And so: this is my public service announcement to myself: to just fucking do it.

I love writing. It’s my medium of expression. I don’t know how it happens. But it does. I need an outlet for the endless flow of words in me. I need an outpouring for my inner restlessness, because, it’s not going away. I will let it be meaningful, for me, and hopefully in later stages, for others. Be that through laughing at my shit jokes (‘shit’ meaning, poo, my jokes are great), gaining an insight and understanding into a different human experience to yours, or who knows — to maybe learn neurodiverse ways of being, and or — to read and think “Jesus Christ” — think that a lot. As I think, does everyone around me. Those close to me express it. But — I’m actually not Jesus Christ.

Here goes.

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