On RSD
Writers are a special breed. To continually mine ones soul, and find a way to bleed beauty onto the page - that takes some energy. At time, we get in our feels. Hell, let me drop the pretext—this is about me and my bitter enemy. Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria.
Starting as ‘rejection sensitivity” in the mid 90s, and developed by Geraldine Downey (primarily.) It describes a cognitive-affective trait involving high anxiety over perceived social rejection.
Move forward to around 2010, and Dr William Dodson coined another term, Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD.) RSD was focused on ADHD and became a clinical focus describing intense, sudden emotional pain.
The key word here is Dysphoria. Dysphoria is defined as a profound states of unease, dissatisfaction, or anxiety acting as the opposite of euphoria. Symptoms of dysphoria can include depression, persistent unhappiness, irritability, fatigue, social withdrawal, and others. These symptoms then manifest as some type of discomfort and tension.
So, for a writer, this type of “condition” works to demoralize and stifle any talent at all. I would like to think I had some talent for writing. But days like today, I feel small and inconsequential. I feel like my opinion counts for nothing. I feel like people are humoring me. I feel disconsolate. I feel like I am being tolerated. And it doesn’t feel good.. I am listening to sad music, sinking further into a mood. Like I want to down a bottle of red wine (I don’t drink) and smoke hella weed (okay, I can do that.) I just don’t know how to pull myself out of this mood. It is heavy, and I am in serious pain. But you wouldn’t know it looking at me. I smile, and act like everything is alright, when my insides are slowly rotting
I will stop here, because it is all drivel. I have been thinking about whether or not to post this, as it was just for me to get my frustrations with RSD out in the open.. I think I am going to go ahead and push this.. I am a full human with full emotions, and they do no good hidden away.
You might wander if I, as a writer, as the artist I believe myself to be, can transmute to pain (lead) into something beautiful (gold), but I have nothing but ash and decay. I am scraping the bottom of the barrel of my feelings, desperately holding onto anything, any scrap of kindness, anything to get me through the night. I am breakable right now. Actually, I am broken. Maybe I will have the strength to put the pieces back together tomorrow.
But tonight, I will listen to my music, and spill some tears. Drink in sadness, so that I may transmute it into happiness tomorrow. As for tonight, well…
