Unfiltered & Too Many Tabs Open
Survival was a Skill; Living is the Goal
The Origin of the Salsa
I spent over 40 years living in a room where 50 people were talking, some screaming, all at once - half of them strangers, the other half people I love—and they all started shouting the second I tried to focus. That’s my ADHD. It’s 36 songs playing at the same time, the dogs and kids playing, 50 people talking and yelling at different volumes, while my internal narration screams in the corner about the Amazon returns I forgot, the doctor’s appointment I still haven’t made, the chores I didn’t do, the ones I have to do, the homework that needs done. All at the same fucking time. 🤯 While the narration was different in my childhood vs in my adulthood the noise was the same, loud and constant. But then there’s the Autistic side. That’s the part of me standing in the middle of all that noise, desperately craving a silent, rigid, perfectly organized room where nothing ever changes. It’s the part that forces me into the “replay booth,” obsessively dissecting every interaction from three hours or three years ago, analyzing every word I said or didn’t say and every face I made to see where I “failed.” I masked this tug of war well. Many may never have realized. Even those close to me. But it was there. All of it.
I spent decades wondering why everyone else received the instruction manual to life while I was just handed a bunch of glitter in a pasta strainer. The manual was written for people who can hear one voice at a time. No wonder the instructions leaked right through the holes; I was too busy trying to survive the internal hell-storm to read the fine print. I was 40 years late to my own diagnosis—which, honestly, is the most on-brand ADHD thing I have ever done. 😏
Welcome to my brain: it has 75 open tabs, 3 are frozen, but I finally know exactly where the music and noise is coming from.
The Daughter She Didn’t Order
I was born and raised in the Northeast, and growing up was a constant state of walking on pins and needles. As far back as I can remember, I was never the daughter my birth mother wanted, I was never the “right” kind of daughter. I didn’t fit the mold. I had a younger brother who had his own struggles, but in her eyes, he was “perfect.” I, on the other hand, was the “unruly child.”
The labels were thrown at me like darts: Lazy, unmotivated, careless, bad, awkward, dramatic, too sensitive, intense, scatterbrained, difficult, and defiant. But the one that really stuck—the one that echoed in the back of my head for forty years—was her telling me I was going to be nothing. It’s funny (not the “haha” kind of funny, more the “dark irony” kind) because while the gates of hell would open if I so much as breathed wrong, my brother was the “perfect” child. I was just… “difficult.”
I couldn’t have been past 6th grade when the fog finally started to lift. My parents were fighting—a sound that was the background noise of my childhood—and I did what I always did: I left. I walked down the road to a family friend’s house, a place where I spent a lot of time because their daughter was my age and their house didn’t feel like a minefield. Shortly after I got there, my godfather picked me up. He didn’t take me home. He took me to our spot: Dairy Queen.
Between bites of ice cream, he started to fill in the blanks. He explained that my mother had gotten pregnant with me young, and my father’s side of the family had pushed hard for them to get married. At eleven or twelve years old, I couldn’t grasp the whole picture, but I understood enough. As I grew older and the pieces of the puzzle started to click into place, the picture was devastatingly clear. I was the reason she felt “trapped.” I was the physical manifestation of a life she hadn’t planned and a marriage she might not have wanted.
Through years of therapy as an adult, I finally realized that the “unruly child” narrative wasn’t just based on my behavior—it was based on her resentment. I started with a bad hand. I’m not saying she didn’t love me; I think she loved me in the only capacity she was capable of while carrying that weight. But she would never admit it. To her, she was the martyr, and I was the problem. That realization was a boiling pot of disaster for a kid who was already struggling to understand why her brain 🧠 didn’t work like everyone else’s.
She was smart at how she presented herself to the world. To everyone else, she was the perfect mother dealing with a difficult daughter. But behind closed doors, she would scream and yell, blaming me for everything—including being assaulted as a teenager. Even without using the exact words, she made it clear that in her eyes, it was my fault.
My only real sanctuary was my grandparents’ house. Grandma and Grandpa were my real mom and dad. At their house, I could just exist. I could engage in parallel play—being in the same room but doing my own thing—and finally feel regulated. They never yelled if I asked “why” for the 50th time. They just showed me again until I understood.
The Script, The Spy, and the Ones Who Saw Me
Making and keeping friends was a battlefield. My friend, we will call her Mac, she has been there since elementary school. She saw the truth of my home life and the contrast of the love my grandmother gave me. It turns out, we were kindred spirits in more ways than one—Mac is also late-diagnosed neurodivergent, and has two amazing neurospicy children. Then there’s, we will call her Cheese, my other very close friend I met through gaming; she also has ADHD, as does her son. It’s no wonder we found each other. We were all tuned to a frequency the rest of the world couldn’t hear. These two are very dear to me. They arent just friends or best friends they are My Sisters! 💜💜
I spent hours in the bathroom mirror practicing my facial expressions, scripts. I wasn’t just “getting ready” for school; I was scripting my entire existence. I studied the “normals” like a spy trying to learn a foreign language in enemy territory. I had to learn how to tilt my head, when to smile, and how to hide the overstimulation and burnout that was constantly clawing at my insides.
But inside, there was a violent tug-of-war. My ADHD was a chaotic fire, but my Autistic side was desperately trying to build a brick wall of routine and sameness just to feel safe. When that wall inevitably crumbled because of the chaos at home, I was the one who was punished for the “mess.”
Mac saw all of it, my mother and my grandmother. She saw that Grandma wasn’t just a grandparent—she was my mom. She saw the way Grandma was the exact opposite of the chaos that was my mother and home life: calm, patient, and loving. In my eyes, and in my grandmother’s eyes, that was the only “mother” bond that mattered. We have reflected many times about the difference between the two. Mac has brought out memories I had burried out of survival. Not just the bad ones. The amazing ones also, like things that happened at grandparents day at school way back in the day.
I daily was perfecting my mask. And holy shit, did I get good at masking. I was replaying social interactions from three years ago and narrating every single thing I was doing “wrong.” Scipting and mimicing my peers, family and even people on tv and in movies. The perfection really manifested into my adult life.
I was living with Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD) before I knew the word for it. If I forgot my homework, I wasn’t just “forgetful”—I was paralyzed by the fear of the hell-storm that followed. I was constantly doing damage control for a life I didn’t even have the manual for.
Reading the Room Like a Survival Skill
I was trained to manage the chaos of others long before I had the tools to manage my own. My mother taught me how to lie to my father to cover for her mistakes, and I became her unwilling accomplice.
I was the one hiding the bills under the cushions. I was the one sprinting to the mailbox to intercept the final notices so he wouldn’t find out the electric was about to be shut off while he was out working his ass off to provide for us. My brain has a fierce, Autistic sense of justice—I knew it was wrong, and every fiber of my being was terrified he’d find out—but in that house, the fear of her explosion was greater than the weight of the lie.
That experience didn’t just teach me how to hide things; it reinforced a desperate need to micromanage every person’s emotions and reactions just to stay safe. I became a master at “reading the room” because my survival depended on it. Imagine the most stressful feeling you have ever had. That was my constant fucking state inside while performing on the outside.
The OS Finally Crashes: Fibromyalgia and Burnout
That tug-of-war followed me into adulthood. I ended up in toxic relationships that were mirrors of my childhood. Control, manipulation, and mental “beatings” made masking feel like a survival requirement. I would exhaust every fucking ounce of my energy trying to manage their emotions just to avoid the next explosion. Always thinking the people I cared about most were mad at me, disappointed, annoyed or didn’t love me anymore.
Living in that kind of survival mode bred a lot of messy choices and brutal lessons. I couldn’t see it back then, but every single misstep was quietly peeling back a layer, leading me to a deeper understanding of who I actually am. It meant piling fresh trauma on top of the ghosts that were already there, making an already heavy load almost unbearable. But I made it to the other side.
The number of years being treated for “Anxiety” and “Depression” never helped. I think back to this and think, it touched the very surface but only made me think, “This isn’t working, I just need to pretend I’m ok.” Even through therapy/counseling I could not fully work through trauma because the NOISE was so damn loud. I hated taking medications because they didn’t ever seem to work. 😶🌫️
Then, my kids were born. When my oldest two boys were diagnosed with ADHD, I saw the patterns. I was like wait a dang minute. The dots started connecting but there was still something else. When my youngest, Jackson, was diagnosed as Autistic, the instructions were finally translated. The dots all connected, the little girl inside along with the adult finally felt seen. It was a HOLY SHIT MAL moment. But even then, the Imposter Syndrome was a bitch. A BIG BITCH!
In all of this I had two major surgeries. Ovarian Cancer had my number and liked me. 2004 while pregnant with my first I had a 12lb tumor removed that had taken over my left ovary, I was 18 weeks pregnant with my oldest. Then 2017 it showed up again on the right side. This time I had a full hysterectomy—remaining ovary, uterus, cervix all gone. I was still young but I chose to not face that monster again.
Eventually, the years of internalizing everything—the burnout, the masking, the lack of structure, routine, the suppressed “Why?”, the noise, the overstimulation & no outlit, and well, menopause—finally broke my physical body. During COVID, I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia. Suddenly, it wasn’t just the mental noise; it was constant, grinding physical pain.
My grandparents, after Jackson’s diagnosis and the older boys, encouraged me to dive into my own connections to ADHD and Autism. It wasn’t until after they passed that I finally dove in. The process of self discovery started way before I started the hunt for a doctor that would listen and hear me.
I wasn’t “nothing.” I wasn’t “broken.” I was “ME!” Exactly who I was supposed to be. Different operating system but NOT BROKEN!
The Man Who Handed Me the Chips
After decades of toxic relationships, I finally broke away. And for the first time, the world didn’t end. In fact, it started to open up. I found myself in a career where I was finally supported. Instead of being punished for my “quirks,” I was in an environment that allowed me to manage them. I was succeeding, not by being “normal,” but by being me.
But the biggest shift happened at home. I found love in a man who we will call,💓Brine💓 (IYKYK), he didn’t just accept me; he genuinely loved the person I had spent 40 years trying to hide. He is supportive, encouraging, and patient in a way I didn’t know existed. He doesn’t just love me—he loves our kids, supporting their neurodiversity and my own with a steadiness that has helped me heal.
Even before I had the official “AuDHD” label, he understood my limits. And when my RSD flares up—when I ask him ten times a day if he’s mad at me—he doesn’t get frustrated. He just reassures me. Every single time. He didn’t see me as broken. He saw me as beautiful, strong, and resilient.
He doesn’t try to change the “NeuroSpicy Salsa 🌶️”; he just helps me enjoy the kick and hands me another bag of chips. Finding that safety was the final piece of the puzzle I needed to stop surviving and start living. Allowing myself to unmask.
Hard Mode: Deactivated
I finally found a doctor that would hear me. A therapist that would be supportive and easy to talk to. There it was: ADHD (Inattentive type) and Autism Spectrum Disorder. (I am not a fan of calling it a disorder).
That first morning with my meds—I woke up, ate some breakfast and took my first pill. About 30-40 minutes later as I was scrolling TikTok, I stopped scrolling. Closed the app.
IT WAS QUIET. THE NOISE, THE CONSTANT NARRATION, THE ENDLESS LISTS OVER AND OVER AND OVER was gone. I cried. Like actual tears. Saying I had lived my whole life in super duper hard mode is an understatement.
I called my oldest son and we had the most amazing conversation. I cried. I apologized for not having the tools to understand his ADHD. I had the most amazing conversations with my middle son with Brian. LIFE CHANGING. The meds didn’t diminish who I am, they helped turn down the noise so I could be exactly who I am. Even at the end of the day, the noise is still turned down. I’m sleeping better. I’ve started taking courses, learning new things.
The Autsitc side is front and center. It’s no longer burried, in the shadows. It’s no longer craving the quiet, the structure, the focus. It’s got all of that. I HAVE ALL OF THAT!! I’m finding day by day that the burn out is disapating and I am recharging. That battery was beyond drained. Running on fumes. But now I’m gaining back that battery power.I’m able to keep things organized not just externally but internally.
The noise, experiences and trauma, it’s all organized in what I see as index card boxes. I can look at them, process and then put them the fuck away if I want to. I still can feel stress and dysfunction but it doesnt consume me. Im able to enjoy my interests in ways I couldnt before. Before it was to help drown out the ADHD side of things. I’ve started investing in myself. Taking courses, learning new skills. I know my limits and when to call it a day. I can communicate my feelings better with my loved ones. Theres still a lot of growth to come not just as me but as a mother, a spouse, and a friend. I can’t wait to dive into all that irl and then document it here.
And the Fibromyalgia flare ups? (Knocks on every piece of wood) I have not had one. I am at my baseline. The connection between the mind and body is remarkable. Don’t get me wrong. I have had days where I am above my base line but I’m not stuck in bed, and they don’t last for weeks.
I think it’s natural to wish you didn’t have to go through some experiences. I do. But I also love who I am. Wow, saying that and meaning it, it hits different. I did my best with the tools I had or created, the knowledge I had at the time. Regardless of tirals I went through It led me to where I am today. With an amazing family, love thats unconditional and a new sense of self discovery and happiness.
I’m NOT apologizing anymore. The noise is finally being turned down, and I’m the one with the microphone.
What’s Next?
This blog is a deep dive into my life and what it’s actually like living with the 🌶️NeuroSpicy Salsa🌶️. We’re going to get into:
- The “Before and After”: Life before and after the right diagnosis and treatment.
- The Corporate Jungle: Navigating a career and the job market when you don’t fit the “standard” mold.
- Home Life & Parenting: Raising three neurodivergent boys while navigating chronic pain and my own personal journey. The filter is officially off. Survival was the skill; Grab a chip and settle in. 🌶️