thinking I was simply a bad person. I couldn’t understand why time management was so elusive to me, why I’d get so easily distracted, and why I couldn’t keep my things in order.
My forgetfulness had also cost me true connections over the years. Anxiety about all of the above only made things worse – I worked hard to come off as “normal,” but constantly feared that I would be called out by somebody who clearly saw me for what I thought I was: a failure who was stumbling her way through life.Shame caused me to write off my symptoms for many years.
The realities of being a Black woman also held back my diagnosis, as did grappling with strongly ingrained attitudes about medication and mental health.
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