At one point, I knew I had found the answer. Something had to explain the inner confusion, relentless distraction, Rolodex of jobs, battling focus and sensory overloads. I was treated as a sad, burnt-out Mom, given anti-depressants, and the brain fog was ten times worse. Daily, I felt even-keeled and scarily numb. Even that tiny dose altered me. Not into the better person I wanted to be or the braver one. It had parked my keister into comfort and avoidance. I was an insomniac, dull, paranoid, felt a loss of sparkle, and was the queen of Mom-shame while I aced People Pleasing 101. (Cue the violin).

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