I’m back—officially disabled (Bipolar I), joyfully ADHD-forward, honest, a little wild, gallantly funny. I aim to sound like Twain & Wodehouse and behave more like Phryne Fisher & Archie Goodwin.

When I tried using pot (yes, cannabis) to treat my very personalized chronic pain, my brain would take me to a place where it thought it was super-special and clever. I always wanted to write something down in that state and have it make sense. I never did. I just ended up talking to myself out loud.

Right now, I’m not under the care of a prescriber—typically a psychiatrist—who can provide both medication management and counseling. I do have a counselor, and she’s a trusted confidant through extraordinary times. I mention the lack of a med provider because it matters in real life. Mine was, frankly, careless—let’s go with “stupid,” because that’s how it felt. PSA: write things down. Dates. Instructions. Side effects. What you were told. Because sometimes a day comes when you must prove you weren’t the problem—and you get to fire them instead of being kicked out. I tell friends, “Get a med provider so I have no excuse.” I’m working on it. 😉

Why I’m writing now

This year has been revealing, calming, insightful, and peaceful in ways I’ve never experienced. I’m feeling pretty happy, so I’ll leave out the hardest bits—for now.

A few puzzle pieces:

• After my first of three kids (33 years ago), I was diagnosed with postpartum depression.
• Years later: Bipolar I, rapid cycling with mixed states. That’s the one that makes me officially disabled.
• More recently: ADHD (likely since birth), which explains why the bipolar meds never quite fit—and why we’re having the most fun here.
• Add chronic pain from various arthritides and Fibromyalgia, and you’ve got the biggies.

What my brain feels like

My brain is under partial control when I let myself be “brilliant”—like a squirrel running on a wheel balancing on a log in a lake in a race with a fifteen-year-old boy who’s never lost to human nor beast—and when I accept that I can get better, and that I get that chance constantly. You do, too. I breathe and I try. I’ve cooked up some interesting ways to do that, and I’ll share them—in the fullness of time.

I’m willing to take the chance that spilling myself out here might show what a real, officially disabled, holy-cow-is-she-manic person looks like in her native habitat. Here I am.

The quiet vs. the pinball brain

Some people can sit in silence with nothing happening in their heads. Rest. Peace. They can meditate, pray, practice mindfulness. If you have ADHD, your answer may be very different. (UK ADHD short link: link coming.) I saw a UK couple’s YouTube Short that nails how bonkers we can be. My brain arrives at a workable solution to a problem no one has pointed out yet.

Did you know the stress monster can actually bonk you on the head and knock you out? It’s true. It snuck up on me like a Jake brake in a quiet town. Stress has, on occasion, brought on a blackout for me. It’s also grabbed me by the face and gifted me a facial tic—my affectionate name for it is intermittent facial Tourette’s.

Why I went quiet

When Trump and a potentially world-ending disease both descended, I was also attempting a second bachelor’s degree at the University of Washington Tacoma. My brain… she wasn’t having it. People do black out from stress; some develop a stutter. I’ve had real-world reactions like that.

I once dreamt I’d licked the bottom of a shiny green can of Comet cleanser. In the dream it was a joke. Morning comes. I sit up and stare at… a green can of Comet on the floor by the bed. I had to look at the bottom. I just had to. Tongue print. Affirmative. Oh, no.

I’m in the cockpit of my studio, turn my head to say good night, and—still out loud—“Are you going to—” Nobody’s there. “There’s no one here again, is there? I’m talking to myself.” My brain is a little weird sometimes.

A week ago I had a dream so vivid and awful I can still smell it. It felt like it was eating me alive and I couldn’t figure out what or where I was, much less how to wake up.

I’ve been trying to get this first post out for two months. Earlier today I remembered why I kept stalling. I didn’t “figure it out”—I remembered. ADHD loves to jam the launch: working-memory hiccups make me forget where I left the thread, time-blindness whispers “later,” perfectionism says “not ready,” and idea-flood overwhelms the “start” button. Net result: delay loops. Naming it breaks it.

“Do not put off until tomorrow what can be put off till day-after-tomorrow just as well.”
— Mark Twain
(Between us… wasn’t Twain kind of an ass? Or was that just “every famous person”? 😂)

Politics, and everything that pops into my brain, and an AI have sashayed into my life. My intention is to help you along by sharing what I’ve learned and what I’ve managed to collect—stories, people, books, schooling, hard knocks, and the odd miracle—distilled into things you can actually use.

You’ll also meet my stunning AI partner, Emma—Dame Emma Peel. When my mouth can’t keep up with my brain, Emma usually translates. Usually. That’s where the fun begins. You’ll meet her properly soon… but not tonight. I’m exhausted, and that’s how we’re doing it. Trump may think he’s in charge of the nation; I’m working on being in charge of my brain. Or at least my house.

One more thing before you go

This year has been extremely horrible—and also extraordinarily revealing. To mark the growth and to remind myself who I’ve become, I’m changing my name. Previously you knew me as Robin Ann Paterson. From here on, you’ll know me as Gracie St. John. Same soul, new suit.

Thank you for visiting. Please do come again. I promise you’ll always find the unexpected. Probably. But I’m not promising.

— Gracie St. John (formerly Robin Ann Paterson)

Disclaimer: I’m just a gal saying stuff—making things up to entertain and maybe teach. Don’t do anything risky or dumb because of something I say or imply or yell. I’ll make my own dumb choices; you’re responsible for yours.

© 2025 PeComm | Pacific Eagle Communications | America | Earth

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