oops. I think I forgot how to write.

Before I started medication for my raging AuDHD (that’s a portmanteau of autism + ADHD), I was a mess. Not in the quirky, artistic, “girl-next-door in a sitcom” way, but in an actual, gross way.

I had coffee cups that could have posed as petri dishes lining my desks and bookshelves. My daily life consisted of hours spent scrolling through various social media feeds until my eyes went raw—a dopamine addiction that came with a nicotine and caffeine tolerance high enough to put a shetland pony in an early grave. For most of the year, you could not see my floor thanks to the piles of clothes that did not pass the smell test, but still weren’t considered dirty enough to throw in the wash.

The occasional upside to the mess was the creativity, which came and went seemingly randomly. But when it was here, it always swallowed me with an unhinged jaw (like the boa constrictor in that really messed up Shel Silverstein poem, the one that haunted me as a kid). It was unstable, but it was beautiful. And I got shit done.

Every first draft was a hostage situation. I had to get in, get consumed, and get out before the window closed.

Then, I got diagnosed and the psychiatrist handed me pills that were somehow both a highly addictive, controlled substance and also the things that would change my life (allegedly).

I took the pills. They kicked in.

It’s hard to describe what ADHD medication feels like when you’ve spent your whole life with dopamine and its sensors all haywire in your brain. The change in my mind was akin to what I imagine a sensory deprivation chamber feels like to those weird, brainmaxxing gurus who swear by them.

I can think in a straight line and listen when someone speaks to me. My planners and calendars are no longer abandoned to rot at the bottom of drawers and instead get to live out their lives being used for their purposes. Now, work isn’t excruciating. It’s actually (surprisingly) rather rewarding.

The coffee cups get washed. I put my clothes away and I floss my teeth more than once a year.

It doesn’t feel like I’m trying to scrabble together a decent day-to-day life. I have power over what I do.

Okay, yeah. I’m way more organized and stable and stuff. It’s great except for the fact that the meds don’t discriminate, which means they organize everything.

I wasn’t aware that includes the part of me that used to grab an idea at 1 a.m. like a raccoon grabbing a shiny piece of garbage and refuse to let go. She’s gone. Or just quieter. Or she’s in there somewhere getting eight hours of sleep, which is somehow worse.

When I’m on my pharmaceutical-grade amphetamine, I sit down to write and it’s so... reasonable.

I open the document. I write some words. The words are fine. FINE.

But when I used to write like it was the only thing keeping me afloat, it’s a little jarring to lose some of that fire. And now, I must admit to you like we’re in some kind of anonymous meeting: “Hi, I’m M. Anne. And I have writer’s block.”

I have to wonder if the mental dysfunction was the actual juice for writing. Or was I just so used to writing despite dysfunction that I gave the it the byline?

I don’t know. I hate that. The medicated version of me is apparently someone who can sit with not knowing without setting anything on fire about it, which is very mature and I resent it.

I get how this sounds. “Oh no, my life is functional now, boo hoo, my teeth are flossed.” I KNOW.

I wouldn’t go back. I want to be extremely clear that I would not go back.

The chaos was also the reason I had petri-dish cups and a floor made of laundry. But the insane, unmedicated raccoon that I acted like actually wrote some good shit.

So, what now? Do I actually have to figure out what kind of writing practice I have when it doesn’t destroy my life (and my dental health)?

That's the project, I guess.

I’ll let y’all know. Probably in multiple sessions. Like a narc.

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You can find me on my website or on my Instagram/Threads (at)poet.m.anne.avera .