Neurodivergent in Dublin

Living with depression, anxiety, borderline personality disorder, and attention deficit disorder means that (as sick as it sounds) the voice in my head often feels like my best friend.

A Story

I just got back from the Republic of Ireland, tagging along on my husband’s work trip.

It was beautiful, a stark contrast to the country’s history.

I’d heard about the Irish potato famine, but I didn’t truly realize what it meant for the people, particularly when combined with the oppression under which they were already being crushed.

The picture that goes with this blog post shows the Dublin Castle coach house, built in 1833 to block the sight of the (mostly Catholic) poor from sensitive noble eyes.

In four short years from 1845-1849, a terrible blight on the potato crop turned the primary food source of the island to dust. Over 1 million people starved to death. Within 10 years, another 2 million or so fled in the “largest exodus from a single island in history”.

During that time, the English (mostly Protestant) ruling class made begging illegal. The tour guide at Kilmainham Gaol said that the youngest prisoner ever incarcerated there was a 3-year-old boy who was caught begging for food.

A 3-year-old boy with no parents, siblings, or family. At least in jail, he’d have had food - though he would have been imprisoned with 5-6 other people who might have stolen his share.

Neurotypical Sadness

I am heartbroken by the stories, the loss, the pain. I have to block thoughts of the little boy, of how he would’ve needed help to climb into the courtroom chair to face judgement. I know its not the only place or time where people went through hell, where death was everywhere. I know people are living this reality while I type.

I looked at the streets, the plaques, the monuments, imagined the horror of living in a time when a woman could deliver 19 children but have only 3-4 survive childhood even before the famine struck.

Neurodivergent Sadness

I am whipping myself inside because they don’t deserve to suffer. I do, for thinking that my problems are important. This is where poor mental health twists things. Neurotypical people may feel terrible - but their thoughts don’t often make them despise themselves or wish for death. Mine do.

In my daily thoughts, my internal voice, my best friend, is very clear. I don’t matter. I don’t do enough to help people. I am nothing. The stories of Ireland are like knives to my soul, sharp, brutal, and unforgiving.

Things that Help

I’ve been in therapy on and off through most of my life. Cognitive Behaviour Therapy helped the most, but it wasn’t enough. My mental state is like the sea, sometimes stormy and terrifying, sometimes calm, but frequently unpredictable. Medication also helps.

What I’m trying now is called Dialectical Behaviour Therapy. It advises that I should act opposite. It feels fake but repetition helps, and I don’t feel so alone when I tell myself that I deserve to be loved. I matter. I am enough. I am someone.