How I Became My Own Worst Critic (and Comedian) in the Process

How Being a Walking, Talking Hot Mess Led to Self-Acceptance—And Therapy Bills

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CPTSD—just another layer to add to the list of what’s “messed up” with me. But seriously, who wouldn’t have complex PTSD after years of living with a brain that doesn’t quite align with others? Trying, with everything you’ve got, to just be “normal”… What even is normal, anyway?

I can’t be the only one out there feeling all sorts of “messed up,” but still making it work. The even crazier part? I’ve known for years that I’m a bit “crazy,” and I’ve proudly worn that crown with unshakable pride. Maybe it’s not the right words, but it feels right to me.

What If My Neurodivergence Had Been Accepted 30 Years Ago?

Ever have those moments where you think, What if? You know, those big questions that hit you like a ton of bricks—like, “How different would my life have been if I’d actually been seen for what I was growing up?” (Spoiler: It wouldn’t have involved years of therapy, an unhealthy relationship with carbs, or a strange obsession with perfecting my neurodivergent self.) So yeah, here’s my big what if: What if my neurodivergence had been recognized and accepted 30 years ago? Would I have avoided a lot of drama with drugs, alcohol, food, relationships, and my questionable decisions in general? I mean, I had some seriously bad choices in my day.

Let’s set the stage: I was raised in the kind of house where problems were buried like expired leftovers in the back of the fridge—don’t look at them, don’t talk about them, and if you push them too far, they’ll explode in your face. You know, just the typical loving family dynamic of pretend nothing’s wrong and it’ll eventually fix itself.

It didn’t.

Healing from the past, one step at a time. It's not a race, it's a journey. 🌱💪 #CPTSDHealing #YourJourneyMatters

The Accidental Oops Baby

Someone asked me once, "Could you have had a traumatic childhood?" Um, yes. Yes, I could. I was the classic “oops” baby—like, surprise! Your teen parents were busy with their own chaotic teen lives, so whoops, here I am, a bundle of neurodivergent joy.

Now, I know some of you might be thinking, “Oh, Tina, how tragic! You must’ve been emotionally scarred.” Sure, maybe. But the truth is, I was raised by kids who had kids, and neither of us had the manual for this whole “life” thing. They were doing what they thought they should, but I spent a lot of time thinking I was a glitch in the matrix. If only I had known that neurodivergence could be a thing back then, maybe I would’ve gotten a pass on being a walking hurricane of emotions and self-doubt.

My parents, bless their hearts, had their own stuff going on. They were both perfectionists in the worst possible way—yes, I’m looking at you, critical “you’re never good enough” rhetoric. I was molded into a perfectionist so quickly, it’s like I was branded with a “Caution: May overthink EVERYTHING” sign the moment I learned how to hold a crayon. Oh, and while they were busy being perfect (not really, but they thought they were), I was over at Grandma’s, escaping the madness. No, seriously, I loved my grandmothers. That was the one place I could breathe. Not that I realized back then that I was desperately trying to flee from… something. But, hey, looking back, I’m seeing the patterns.

I Don’t Blame My Parents

Plot twist time. Ready? I don’t blame my parents. GASP! I know, I know—it’s not the shocking, drama-filled ending you expected, but hear me out. My parents were literally kids. They didn’t have the emotional tools or