Powered by Spite, Meds and Chaos

What do you get when a 48-year-old woman suddenly realises she doesn’t give a fuck about the opinions of people who wouldn’t last ten minutes in her overstimulated and trauma-stacked brain?

You get me.

And I honestly don’t care whether you like or agree with this blog or not. I’m not here for you. I’m here for me. Your opinion? Irrelevant. To be brutally honest, I don’t care whether you read this or not.

Let’s give background for today.

Female. 48 (obviously). Neurodivergent as fuck. Traumatised to hell. Fucked over—mentally and physically—by people who said I meant the world to them. I’m a parent, having being forced – yes I said FORCED – to bring other humans into this world. Some of them even still speak to me.

Let’s get one thing straight: Not all men—but every woman. Every woman knows someone who was abused by a man. Or was that woman herself. I’m not a misandrist. I’m just someone who has been consistently harmed and abused by every CIS man in her life, and that shapes how I navigate the world. So, don’t be offended if I don’t choose to get in an elevator with you.

But hey, on top of that, I fucking hate people. I am fucking sick of them having the emotional range of a teaspoon whilst asking me to be quiet about my experiences because it makes them uncomfortable.

My trauma makes you squirm? Cool. Let me shut the fuck up so you don’t learn, so I don’t get to heal, so I keep masking for your comfort.

What else do I hate? Coffee, dark chocolate , vacuuming, small talk, the phrase “It’s hotting up outside”, and my Alexa reminding that I have once again forgotten to take my medication.

What do I like? Silence. Dreaming of the day I don’t have to micro-manage my family. Kidding myself that I’ll remember to drink the required amount of water tomorrow and trying to decide how to embarrass my children in public (I do that by breathing sometimes – it’s a skill).

Diagnoses? Combined ADHD. ASD Level 2, ARFID, massive depressive disorder, C-PTSD and I’ve fucking lived in survival mode for close to 30 years this year.

Finally, I’m sick of being called strong. Fuck being strong. I never wanted to be. I want to be allowed to fall apart. I want to cry without being brave, to collapse without someone calling it “resilience.” I don’t want the memories I carry or the reasons I’ve had to survive. I wasn’t born strong—I was forced into it.

These days, as the blog title says, I run on spite, meds, and chaos. I’m done pretending. At least here, in this space.

Out there? I’m a mother, a social worker, a so-called social justice warrior, always pushing forward. But I am mentally exhausted. And I’m so fucking tired of stuffing all of this—me—into a tidy little box. Unspoken. Undocumented.

So I’m going to scream it here instead.

Here, I can scream and shout and bitch. I’m not a sane, smiling, got-my-shit-together human being. I am an anxious, overstimulated, burnt-out fucking mess.

This is where the mask comes off. Here, I get to ask myself who I am underneath all the coping mechanisms and performance. Because out there—in the meetings, at the dinner table, in the school parking lot—I’m always masking. Always calculating how to be less “too much,” how to be palatable.

And I’m done. I am so fucking done.

So, hi. I’m Bee. These are my lived experiences—documented here, raw and real—because some day I want to show my psychologist what survival really looks like.

One day. When I can afford one.

If you made it this far—good for you. You’ve survived my chaos monologue. But just in case you’re the kind of person who needs a warning after the fact (honestly, same), here’s a retroactive trigger list.

Trigger Warnings include:
Rape, sexual assault (including of a minor—me, 1986), domestic/family violence, coercive control, emotional abuse, reproductive abuse, isolation, parental guilt, financial manipulation, trauma, burnout, neurodivergence, and disordered eating.

Now you know.

If that makes you uncomfortable… good. It fucking should.