Me vs. RSD: An Ongoing Battle

Back in my single-digits era, one piece of knowledge was imperative in making every summer worthwhile: Knowing who was selling the best-frozen treats, which we called “Icees,” in the neighborhood that year.

Before anyone asks, these Icees were not meant to replace the multi-flavored slushies with the dog mascot on the red and blue cups. Instead, they were clear plastic cups filled to the brim with frozen Kool-Aid or a similar powdered juice mixed by someone’s mom or another woman of mom-adjacent age.

Strictly through word of mouth each June, kids around the neighborhood would find out who was selling the best Icees at the cheapest prices (usually for a quarter but no more than two), and go knocking on these strangers’ doors or windows to buy the frozen concoctions. Were we risking the chance to be poisoned or possibly kidnapped? Sure, but we never actually were. That was part of the fun.

One year, an extremely kind woman named Ms. Lillian was considered by the neighborhood kids to be the flavor of the season. I cdon't remember how often I went to her door that summer, but I’m almost sure I assisted in allowing her to keep her electricity going until the following summer.

On one particularly hazy evening, I knocked at her door, craving one of the tasty treats. To my surprise, the door opened and there stood not Ms. Lillian, but her annoyed and slightly older husband.

“It’s almost 9 o’clock and my daughter is sleeping,” he said sternly. “Don’t come here this late again.” Before I could offer an apology, the door slammed in my face.

At my current age, I can wholeheartedly understand why he responded in such a way – I’m also not a fan of anyone knocking on my door past a certain time (unless they’re actor Jonathan Bailey, who can knock anytime he wants). But as an over-emotional kid, that slam infuriated me beyond reasonable means. Not only did I loudly and crudely express that anger through the shut door and, by vocal volume, the entire floor, but I also continued launching words I had no right using or knowing at any age as I exited the building.

A few days later, I ran into a disappointed Ms. Lillian outside, who told me she heard every word. She demanded that I stay far away from her apartment and never speak to her again. As she walked away, I found myself fighting back tears. I never meant to upset or disappoint her. I was simply hurt by her husband’s actions.

Rejection is important for growth, no matter where it comes from. While I fully believe this life lesson, it often takes several cycles of exhausting emotions to get to that point. As with most of the feelings I experience, the pain from rejection lingers a bit too long, gets a bit too heavy, and sends me into a self-doubt spiral that feels nearly impossible to climb out of.

This can occur with any kind of interpersonal relationship, from potential or once-solid romantic attachments (like the ex who probably cheated on me with his BFF throughout our entire relationship, and had the evidence on his phone to prove it), or missed professional opportunities that I placed too much hope toward. Over the past few months, my inability to land a job has brought on the same feelings of uselessness and self-doubt, and triggered waves of depression I’m still in the midst of.

Back in April, I was hired by a reputable entertainment online publication. This came after beating back years what I first thought was imposter syndrome despite the hard work and many years I’ve accumulated in the writing field. Within days of being hired, I fell into a dark space due to having multiple pitches rejected by the editing team and being told I was too “green” for the site to submit evergreen articles. I resigned after just three weeks. Five months later, I’m still trying to give myself grace for the attempt and understand that I did what I could with what I had. To date, the grace hasn’t fully shown up.

At the start of the pandemic, a Twitter friend took to our shared feed and posted their frustrations about growing up with ADHD. Among the many resentments were how often they were chastised for being “too sensitive” and emotional as a child and as an adult. They ended the tweet with a hashtag, “#RSD.”

Their words hit a familiar place. Like this friend, I was constantly called out as a kid for being overly emotional and taking too much to heart. Even to this day, I still get comments from others regarding my extreme sensitivity and big heart. I’ve always chalked it up to being highly empathetic and more rooted in humanity than most, which I feel I am. Nevertheless, something about that tweet stood out to me. Rather than pry in my friend’s feelings, I did something most don’t in this day and age: Research.

Through Google, I quickly discovered that RSD was less of a hashtag and more of an abbreviation. RSD, short for rejection sensitive dysphoria/disorder is an emotional dysregulation often seen in Autistic individuals or those with ADHD (attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder). Those with RSD feel extreme emotional pain or sadness from perceived rejection or other forms of ostracization. It can be triggered by negative judgments from those they took to for positive reinforcement, temporary exclusion, and even light criticism. What the average person can brush off easily, those with RSD can’t, or at least, not as simply as others can.

Though the explanation felt right to me, there was a small issue in attributing it to myself. To my knowledge, I had never been officially diagnosed with ADHD. Sure, I had moments of being easily distracted or having issues focusing on certain tasks, and even occasionally hyper-focusing on activities to the point of forgetting to eat or sleep. And then, I remembered something from my childhood.

Like other health conditions, ADHD had been noted by different titles before its current name. It wasn’t until the 1960s that it first received a proper title: hyperkinetic reaction of childhood. By 1987, medical journals and doctors referred to the condition by the moniker we know now after first splitting the condition into two separate categories: ADD (attention-deficit disorder, without hyperactivity) and ADHD. When it came to the latter, many shortened the phrase and described the condition as “hyperactive.”

Along with being called sensitive by almost every person I’ve ever met, Momma and my psychiatrist (!!!) repeatedly told young me that my strong emotions came from being hyperactive.

After clarifying with Momma that I hadn’t misremembered anything, I connected with my Twitter friend to share my experiences. When they affirmed that my words mirrored much of their own life, a wave of relief washed over me. After 40 years of being in the dark about something I felt shame for, someone finally turned on a light. I couldn’t understand how it took me so long to connect these dots, but then, something else came to mind – memory loss and forgetfulness are just two of a multitude of ADHD symptoms. So, not only is my brain wired differently, but those wires made it difficult to recall that my brain was wired differently.

Somewhere in the world, Alanis Morrissette is smirking.

I wish I could say knowing about RSD has made my life easier. Unfortunately, it just makes past experiences more hurtful to revisit.

For instance, a former friend once rebuffed me as I attempted to show sympathy after the sudden loss of a loved one. I can see now that they simply didn’t have the “spoons” to navigate another person's sorrow while they were actively mourning. Still, I held that interaction with me for decades. It both changed how I approached others in similar dark times, and how I mourned loss. I didn’t just carry that harsh interaction with me, which wasn’t purposeful – I let it fester.

I believe RSD was also the strongest factor in my long pause from the writing world. After being laid off in 2015 from my dream writing job, I joined another publication the following year. Unlike my previous role, where I was praised for bringing a “fresh voice” to the world of celebrity editorial journalism (despite being one of the first people laid off when things went left), the editors at my new position all but silenced that voice, and subsequently pushed me into mimicking the conservative tone of their publication. When they fired me in 2018, I barely recognized the writer I once knew and the one I hoped to grow into.

Just recently, my therapist’s office informed me that I would have to seek other options due to my therapist immediately departing their role to deal with some personal issues. The surprising news came weeks after multiple canceled appointments on my therapist’s end, and on the same day our first rescheduled appointment was set – which was also Momma’s birthday. That appointment was also ultimately canceled by the therapist’s office.

It was only after reaching out to my therapist via text that I learned the news firsthand. They then offered me one final session before their last day. I appreciated the gesture but declined the invitation. While I’m completely understanding of anyone’s struggles, I truly felt neglected by someone I was extremely vulnerable with, and it was not the first time I’ve gone through that experience. Additionally, I felt bothered that it took weeks for them to make contact and share news of their departure, which they surely knew of for some time. I knew I would be unable to break down my walls enough to be fully present for a session, so I chose not to schedule one. I haven’t heard from my former therapist since.

It always seems that when I’m at my most vulnerable, something comes along to shatter any sense of personal security I have. Even today, when I open up to the few people who always show up for me without question or obligation, I worry if there will come a time when they become tired of my “sensitivity” and leave me behind. In the past, I’ve jumped the gun and distanced myself from others before they could reject me, only to later realize I misread something and potentially made a mountain out of an anthill. I dutifully try not to let my trauma be the loudest thing in the room, but there are times it becomes deafening and wins out.

I don’t know if there will ever come a time when I’ll be able to keep my RSD at bay. Some days, I can recognize it before it overpowers me. Others, it kicks my ass and clears a room before I have a chance to explain myself. Every day presents a new opportunity to be a better person than the one before, and I can give myself a bit of grace knowing exactly what I deal with. I don’t doubt that there will be days when RSD gets the best of me. However, just as words trigger it, I can use that same tool to make my way toward healing.

Ms. Lillian, if you’re out there, please know that I remain truly sorry for my actions that evening (even if your husband was kind of a jerk for slamming a door in a kid’s face). I hope you’re well and thriving.