Glitch

If you exist in society today, you likely use a smartphone regularly. As a small business owner and personal trainer, my phone is one of the most important tools I have for managing my bookings, communicating with clients and accessing their personalized training programs. It’s also the easiest way for me to manage my calendar, set reminders and alarms, and use all of the other tools that help me manage my ADHD.

I have always been what you might consider clumsy. It’s not that I’m not agile or even graceful at times, but those moments of careful, calculated movement are punctuated by other moments of complete and utter chaos. In more recent years, after transitioning off the birth control I’d been on since I was 16 and beginning to track my cycle, I noticed a pattern: during the week leading up to my period, in addition to obvious symptoms like moodiness and being extremely self-critical, I am significantly more forgetful and accident-prone.

For example, one month during that week, I lost my earbuds and a favourite hoodie—and dropped my keys down the elevator shaft in my building. While the key-in-elevator-shaft issue took time and outside help to solve, by the second day of my period I had found the sweater hiding underneath another jacket on a hanger in my front closet, and my earbuds in the top drawer of my bathroom....a drawer that I open literally every fucking day, yet it still took me nearly a week to find them.

With this kind of track record, it probably doesn’t surprise you that I’m the kind of person who drops her phone a lot. I’ve dropped phones into bathtubs, toilets, snowbanks on the side of the road, down staircases, and just onto the floor over and over and over again. The only time I’ve ever purchased a new phone simply because I wanted one was back in the flip-phone era, when phone's were built like tiny bricks.

As phones got smarter (and way more expensive), I quickly learned that a sturdy case and screen protector were absolutely necessary for me. Even still, after enough drops, eventually the case would fail and I’d find myself scrambling to repair or replace my phone yet again.

When I broke my last phone in 2022 or so, I had already paid to repair the same damage twice and refused to do it again. So I bought a brand-new, nearly $1,000 phone, a sturdy case, and a device protection plan.

It had been nearly two weeks after running out of Vyvanse when I went into the bathroom at the gym where I work and discovered my period had started. “No big deal,” I thought. I knew it was coming and had come prepared—but my supplies were in my bag in the staff room. As I pulled up my pants in the bathroom stall, I fumbled and dropped my phone in what can only be described as my usual fashion.

While there have been many times when my drops were colossal, flailing embarrassments, most often it’s the small glitches that really screw me over. I call them glitches because I honestly have no better word. When the flailing disasters happen, I can practically see them in slow motion, but I still can’t react fast enough to stop them. But when I glitch, it’s more like I lose myself for just a moment—like when a video feed freezes briefly, or in millennial terms, when a CD skips. In that split-second interruption, I lose my place; I lose control. I’m gone—and then I’m back, and whatever happened has already happened without my knowledge or consent.

This glitch was no different from the hundreds I’ve had before. The drop wasn’t high, and my phone had survived far worse, so at first, I wasn’t worried. That changed when I saw the screen flash and noticed the phone had gently popped out of its case. Not surprisingly, this was the exact same issue that had happened to the phone I’d replaced with this one. And then, from the back of my mind, came the blame, the shame, and a whole slew of self-beratement I hadn’t spewed in years.

I had been procrastinating getting this phone repaired for well over a year. First it was the microphone that stopped working, then a crack started forming in the corner of the screen. I kept telling myself I’d take it in, but the issues didn’t affect me very often, so it was easy to put it off.

When I finally mustered the motivation to get it fixed, I took it to the store where I’d bought the plan—only to learn they actually couldn’t help me and that I needed to make an online claim. So I started the claim process and discovered that I needed to request a loaner phone, strip my phone of all my logins, and mail it away for repairs. It felt convoluted and inconvenient, so I put it off, telling myself, I'll do it later. It’s not urgent. I have the plan—I can send it in anytime.

As my screen flashed black with little sparks of indiscernible light and I walked out of the bathroom, a certainty boiled up from deep in my gut: this was all my fault.

Andrea, you are such a fucking mess. You should have fixed this before. You can’t afford a new phone. You’re unprofessional. What kind of business owner breaks her phone this often? How are clients supposed to reach you? You’re an embarrassment. You go through phones way too fast—it’s so wasteful. Get your shit together, Andrea.

If I’m being honest, even as I write this, it's hard not to judge myself, but I know that it's the same shame that kept me silent when I was young and struggling through far more difficult circumstances with far less support, and it does not serve me now.

Instead, I screamed in my car. I screamed, I cried, I slammed my hands into the steering wheel, and I let my anger and shame move through me. I spoke it out loud, and to my surprise, where I lacked compassion for myself, I received it from others. If only little me had known that was possible.

Ironically, the morning before the phone incident, I received a notification that my prescription was finally ready for pickup and had set a reminder in my calendar to stop on my way home from work. But with my phone broken—and no other way of receiving notifications—I completely forgot until my cat started begging for dinner.

My calendar reminder was actually set so that I'd pick up a few things: my prescription, cat food, and my cat’s prescription were all on the list. Thankfully for both of us, he started begging early, and I remembered just in time to pick everything up before the vet clinic closed.

By the next afternoon, I was back on 30 mg of Vyvanse, had been generously loaned a spare phone, and had been able to order a new one for next to nothing thanks to a Black Friday sale.

After this whole incident, things started to get better again, and I was left with a deep wondering… would I have dropped my phone if I’d been medicated? Truthfully, I don’t think there’s an answer. I’m certainly not immune to glitches now, especially around my period, but it’s something I’m watching for, and if nothing else, it has been a much needed lesson in self compassion.

Shame, Executive Dysfunction, and the Complexities of the Medical System

Shame.

The little voice, in the back of my head that says “you just aren’t trying hard enough”

It crawls into my ears, and down my throat, then it forces itself back out of my mouth so I hear it in my own voice as it reminds me of all the ways I’m falling behind.

Ironically, shame even finds a way to use self compassion against me.

As my mouth speaks unkind words at my reflection, shame says “Come on Andrea, you know better than that,” but it does not offer any counter argument.

Now that some time has passed since Zazz’s little health scare—and I’m removed from the situation and equipped with some new tools and perspectives from my therapist—I can hold a bit more space for myself. But at the time, I was struggling with executive dysfunction and didn’t really understand what that meant.

Executive dysfunction is a disruption in the brain's ability to control thoughts, emotions, and actions. It’s common in neurodivergent brains, like those with ADHD. Executive functioning, therefore, is the normal processing of thoughts, emotions, and actions—and it can be disrupted by trauma, both acutely and chronically.

The one benefit of existing in a state of executive dysfunction is that I was in no place to make any rash decisions about my medication at that time. I was in no place to make a decision at all. Instead, I plugged along at the same dose, deciding that my best bet was to give myself another week to see how I felt before increasing, decreasing, or quitting altogether. Which, of course, was when I approached the bottom of the bottle.

I knew I needed to call the doctor’s office soon to get it refilled, but you know how it is. There was still some left, I was still struggling to get back into my routines, and it slipped my mind. I also wasn’t exactly sure what to say when I called, and the deep sense that I needed to explain myself to my doctor—or nurse—was strong. I hoped I could request the same prescription again to give me a bit more time to experiment, but I feared seeming like a patient who was just seeking medication, or like I somehow knew better than the doctor. So I procrastinated a bit, trying to plan exactly what I would say when I finally called.

And then there were only a few pills left.

I had only a few days’ worth when I called my doctor’s office. “It will be fine,” I thought. “How long could it possibly take? I just need to call and let them know where I’m at. They’ll fax off my prescription to the pharmacy, and it will be ready in a couple of days—no big deal.”

Wrong.

I first called my doctor’s office on a Monday morning, just after they opened. I was told by admin that they couldn’t do anything for me but would put a message through to my doctor. As the end of the business day approached, I decided to follow up. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be waiting for a call back, but I thought if I could just explain what my doctor had told me when we spoke, I could move the process along. I knew it would likely be another month before there was an appointment available with my doctor, but surely they’d understand that they were supposed to connect me with the nurse my doctor mentioned in our last conversation.

When I got through on my second call, the person on the other end of the line was short with me. As I started to explain, “I had a phone appointment with the doc a couple weeks ago, but I hadn’t determined my dose then. She told me to call—” I was cut off.

“The doctor is busy with patients who already have appointments today. You can call your pharmacy and ask them to fax a refill request to us.”

“Okay, thank you,” I said, defeated, and ended the call.

“Alright, it’s okay,” I said to myself afterward, trying to shake off my annoyance at the abruptness of that conversation. “If I had known to call the pharmacy, then obviously I would have just done that—but my doctor said to call them.”

I then proceeded to navigate the shockingly convoluted pharmacy telephone system in order to finally speak to a human who, in a matter of moments, assured me that they would fax the request to my doctor’s office right then. I ended the call with a sigh of relief and went about the rest of my day, confident that I would have my prescription filled in a day or so.

The next morning, I was enjoying a vanilla latte at a cozy local coffee shop, determined to focus on work for a couple of hours, when the pharmacy called. I answered anxiously, worried they were going to tell me there had been a problem—that my doctor had denied my prescription refill, or something equally frustrating. Instead, they called to ask for the exact dosage clarification that I had been told I needed to relay to the nurse.

Knowing better at this point than to try to explain myself or ask for anything specific, I simply told them that I was currently taking three 10 mg capsules daily and left it at that. After all, I wasn’t prepared to make any changes to this dose yet, and perhaps it would just be easier to stick with it and request a change later on if I needed to.

With this conversation out of the way, I now felt absolutely certain that the matter was settled and I could relax for a while. So when I opened my prescription bottle the next morning and saw that there were only four pills left, I didn’t worry. I did, however, decide to take only two pills that day—just in case.

My rationing turned out to be necessary, but ultimately insufficient, because by the following Tuesday, when I set off for my morning latte and work session, I had been out of Vyvanse for five days and had not heard a single thing from the pharmacy or my doctor’s office.

Initially, I wasn’t too worried about being off my meds. After all, I had been unmedicated for 35 years, and although I wouldn’t have said I thrived all throughout those years, I did know I would get by. I always have. As the days stretched on, I observed myself reaching for cannabis more regularly, but I also worked quite diligently to utilize some of the tricks and strategies I had adopted pre-diagnosis to keep me organized and manage my day-to-day anxieties. I wrote lists, I set calendar reminders, I planned, prepared, and packed everything I would need for the following day before bed each night—and I tried so hard to be kind to myself.

A lot of these small habits had fallen away in the previous weeks—some because medication made me somewhat less reliant on the lists and reminders (though not entirely), and some because I had been stuck in the bottom of my spiral pit and simply could not muster the energy or attention required to do them. I wasn’t fully out of the pit at this point, don’t get me wrong, but I had begun the climb anyway, and that was something.

At this point, it had been a full week since I spoke to the pharmacist, and for a few days I had been intermittently checking their online prescription refill system, always seeing a “no refills available” label next to my generic prescription listing. When I finally called the pharmacy to follow up (I’d learned my lesson about trying to call my doctor’s office first), they informed me that they had sent the request and follow-up information to my doctor’s office but had not heard back. They told me they would resend the request immediately but that I should also call the office and let them know.

Thankfully, no one cut me off during this call to the doctor’s office, and I was met with incrementally more compassion than on my last call—but unfortunately, they still did not seem to know what the fuck I was talking about. The administrator explained that when requests come in, they are placed in the appropriate doctor’s mailbox, and my doctor goes through them at the end of each day. She told me that my doctor wasn’t in the office the previous day and hadn’t gone through her mailbox yet. She also told me that she didn’t see my request in the box, so my doctor must not have received it yet, and to request my pharmacy resend it—which, thankfully, they were already doing.

I sighed as I ended the call. Once again left waiting, with no way of knowing for how much longer.

It was another week and a half, another call to the pharmacy, and a near-total breakdown before I finally got my prescription filled.

Between Knowing and Doing

My first week on 30mg of Vyvanse did not go off without a hitch, but I don’t think it was because of the medication. This time, I knew it was the trauma.

A little background to make this make sense. Maybe because I feel the need to justify my reactions, maybe because I am trying to paint a picture—maybe both.

I’ve experienced a great deal of loss in my life, as I've mentioned earlier. I won’t totally trauma-dump the details on you here; I have a whole other book full of that already. It’s called Choose Your Discomfort, and you can get it on Amazon. That being said, a lot of that loss and trauma has impacted my life in the winter, and specifically around the holidays. To say that I’m a bit more sensitive at this time of year is an understatement.

Just over a year ago, I very suddenly had to make the decision to put my beloved cat, who had been by my side since I was 19, down. Gato had been with me through my most formative, challenging, and growing years. She comforted me through breakups and blackouts, through the loss of my grandmothers, my cousin, and my father. She kept me company while I worked three jobs and attended—and subsequently dropped out of—university. She was with me through career changes, two diplomas, eight different homes, and various roommates. Her presence helped me survive the pandemic and all of the tumult that came with it.

She was the first and most constant source of comfort in my life since my mom died when I was 12 years old. And then one day she just stopped eating and started behaving strangely—more reclusive.

I tried to get her a vet appointment, but the soonest they had was two days away. So I monitored her, tried to encourage her to eat, and ended up taking her to an emergency vet the next day when I came home to find her literally hiding in an obscure corner of our office.

I couldn’t find her at first—until I noticed her black tail slightly poking out from behind the textured green reading chair in the corner. I had to pull the whole chair out to get to her, and when I did, she seemed terrified. I rushed her to the nearest emergency vet where we spent the next four hours. Gato bounced between the waiting room, the consultation room, and various trips to the back for bloodwork while I followed where I could, and waited as patiently as possible when I couldn’t.

There was Netflix playing in the waiting room—a rom-com, I believe. I can’t remember which one now, but I know I sat through the whole thing and part of another. Ultimately, they couldn’t determine what was going on with her, so they sent me home with some pain medication, a copy of her medical reports, a $500 bill, and a recommendation to keep her appointment with the vet the next day.

By the time we went to the vet the next day, there was not much they could do. The vet told me that if I took her home, she would pass away. They suspected she had some kind of neurological event, like a stroke or tumor, but wouldn’t be able to confirm or treat it without a $7,000 MRI from a specialist vet—where she would likely need to spend the weekend being stabilized, assuming she even survived the trip.

So a decision had to be made: risk it, pay thousands of dollars I did not have immediate access to, simply to know—without any guarantee of recovery, survival, or quality of life—or say goodbye right there. I chose the latter, and I still wonder if I was right.

Fast-forward to a few weeks ago—my first day at 30mg of Vyvanse—when Zazz, my partner’s cuddly little fluff of a cat, stopped eating.

After living with and caring for a diabetic cat for a number of years, and after losing Gato so suddenly last year, it’s safe to say I am what you might describe as hypervigilant regarding our pets’ behavior. I noticed right away when Zazz’s appetite tanked.

Zazz is my partner’s cat, and although we’ve all lived together for about two years, it’s very clear that Zazz only has eyes for our man. Sure, he’ll accept cuddles from me in certain situations—or when his preferred human isn’t available—but generally speaking, I’m a backup option at best. I am, however, usually the one in charge of meals.

My other cat, Doc—the diabetic one—is on a strict feeding and medication schedule. By default, when we started living together, Zazz had to be on the same schedule because Doc can’t be trusted not to eat his food. So, Zazz’s feeding became part of my routine too.

When I noticed the change in Zazz, I tried not to worry at first. I told Rich, and we monitored him to see if it improved, but it didn’t. So, once again, the process of trying to get a vet appointment began.

After a few calls—and more waiting than I liked—we got him in for a check-up and some tests. Again, they couldn’t determine what was wrong aside from mild dehydration, likely a result of reduced food intake. They gave us appetite stimulants and told us to keep an eye on him. By the next evening, even with the stimulants, he was barely eating. I called and emailed the vet for further instructions. I bought special treats, different food, even bone broth—anything to entice him—but nothing worked.

After another vet visit, some fluids, and anti-nausea and antibiotic medications, Zazz’s appetite eventually returned and he started acting like his usual self again. But I didn’t.

While Zazz struggled with his appetite, so did I. In fact, I struggled with almost everything. The anxiety that boiled up during that week was the worst I’ve experienced in nearly four years. If I wasn’t fixated on Zazz’s care or completely engaged with a client—which was no easy task—I felt frozen.

I could barely eat, and when I did, I had to force-feed myself. My insides were tied in knots, my belly rumbling, while my chest felt heavy and tight—like it was slowly being compressed under the weight of my worries. Every loss, every abandonment, every failure, and every other little thing my heart sometimes effortlessly balances came tumbling down. And all the while, I kept wondering, Is this me, or the medication?

I knew Vyvanse could cause decreased appetite. I also know anxiety does the same to me. So which was it? Maybe both. Even after Zazz improved, I still felt stuck. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. My appetite wouldn’t return. I couldn’t get back into my normal routine, and it opened a small window to my not-so-distant struggles with food and eating.

As someone who has worked hard to end a pattern of chronic undereating, disordered eating behaviors, and a general preoccupation with food, eating, and my body, this change in my eating triggered another spiral. It was during this spiral that I approached the bottom of my prescription bottle.

In my third week of medication—right after my jiu-jitsu tournament—I had a telephone appointment with my doctor. At that point, I was still on two pills (20mg) but intended to increase to three the next day, the start of my fourth week. Because I hadn’t increased in week three, my prescription was still about half full, and I hadn’t yet decided what dosage I wanted to stick with.

In our hurried conversation, my doctor didn’t ask about my ADHD symptoms, mental health, or much else. She asked about caffeine, and seemed pleased when I said, “I’ve actually cut back to only one cup of coffee per day.” She asked about my heart rate and blood pressure—both low-normal as usual—and said, “Your ECG did not change. I’m not worried.”

Then she asked about refilling my prescription. I explained my process and where I was at, and she replied shortly, “Okay, so you will call to refill your prescription when you’re ready, and you can tell the nurse how much you’re taking.” I agreed, and that was that.

“That’s simple enough,” I thought. “I’ll just keep going slowly, and when I need a refill, I’ll call, tell them where I’m at, and they’ll get my prescription for me. No problem.”

It’s important to note this conversation happened the day before I increased my meds—and began the aforementioned trauma-triggered downward spiral.

As Zazz returned to his usual behaviors—like trying to steal food from my plate and affectionately terrorizing (or possibly sexually harassing) Doc—I was still just going through the motions. It didn’t help that I got my period that week and had persistent cramps on top of the anxiety, negative self-talk, and all the other bullshit that seems to come with female hormones. I could acknowledge the circumstances that triggered my anxiety had resolved, but the spiraling thoughts and overwhelming feelings remained.

By this point, it had been nearly a full week on 30mg, and I had no idea how I felt about it. From my perspective, the whole week had been trash, and while I couldn’t figure a way out of the pit yet, I knew it wasn’t a good indication of whether that dose was right for me.

There were many moments in the pit when I blamed the Vyvanse for the extremeness of my reaction, the intensity of my overthinking, and my lack of appetite. Other times, I thought, No, it’s not the Vyvanse. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I don’t really have ADHD—maybe it’s just anxiety after all, and I don’t have it under control like I thought. Maybe I do need an SSRI. Maybe my therapy isn’t working anymore. Maybe I just need to get back into my fucking routine.

I proceeded to lecture myself on all the things I know I should be doing for my mental health but haven’t been:“I haven’t been working out or eating enough. I haven’t been journaling consistently. I haven’t been getting enough sleep. I haven’t been going for walks. I haven’t been kind to myself.”

Sometimes the most complicated part of healing and personal development—at least for me—is knowing I have all the tools but, for whatever reason, being unable to transition from knowing to doing. I know I feel better when I’m exercising regularly and moving in ways that bring me joy and make me feel strong. I know fueling my body consistently and mindfully, and prioritizing activities that allow me to clear my head, disconnect, or reflect on my thoughts and emotions, is crucial for my physical and mental health.

Unfortunately, what often appears for me in the disconnect between knowing and doing is shame.