Writing My Truth: How the Book Began 8/12

At 33, my world split open. It wasn’t soft or cinematic—it was raw, like a lightning bolt tearing through my skull. Alone in my cramped apartment, I was wrestling with the big questions: Who am I? Why am I here? What does all this suffering mean? Then, I felt them: my archetypes, vivid as if they’d stepped out of a dream, like a cosmic council debating in my head. Their voices were clear, almost playful, asking, “What are we going to do with this one?” It was as if my soul’s blueprint flashed before me, and in that frozen moment in time, I knew I had to write a book. The catch? I could barely string a sentence together. With ADHD, dyspraxia, and dyslexia, writing felt like a cruel cosmic prank—a dream I was doomed to fumble.

That moment of enlightenment—if I dare call it that—was the spark, but the journey to this book was an atomic war with my own mind. I had to nuke so many negative patterns and destroy harmful habits. Picture this: me at my kitchen table, pen in hand, surrounded by crumpled papers and half-empty coffee mugs. My ADHD brain lurched forward, swarming with ideas that collided before I could organize them. One second, I’d be writing about grief; the next, I’d be lost in a tangent about a butterfly I saw yesterday. Words tangled in my mind like knotted yarn, and when I attempted to write them, dyslexia transformed the page into a terrifying spectacle—letters flipped, words morphed, and "was" transformed into "saw." Dyspraxia caused my handwriting to resemble a toddler's handwriting, with my pen slipping as if it had its own will. I’d manage a paragraph, then read it back and cringe. “This is garbage,” I’d mutter, slamming my notebook shut. “Who’s going to read this? What the hell am I even doing?”

It took me years to start believing that this curse is actually a blessing. Self-doubt was my shadow, whispering I wasn’t smart enough, disciplined enough, or good enough. ADHD caused my focus to fluctuate quickly, shifting from the page to the creaking floorboard, random memories, or my phone. I’d start writing, then realize I’d been staring out the window for an hour. Dyslexia made every sentence a puzzle; I’d write “their” instead of “there,” then spend 20 minutes second-guessing myself about what I just meant to write. Editing was torture—words danced on the screen, mocking me. Dyspraxia turned the physical act of writing into a battle; my hands couldn’t keep up with my thoughts, and typing felt like wrestling a keyboard. I’d scrap entire pages, convinced they were incoherent. Once, I threw my notebook across the room, yelling, “Why is your work so damn hard?”

But those archetypes, those voices from that pivotal moment, never allowed me to give up; they not only kept me writing, but they also helped me to stay alive. They were my compass, whispering that my messy truth was worth sharing. Slowly, painfully, I found ways to fight back. I used voice memos when writing felt impossible, babbling ideas into my phone. I set a timer for 10 minutes and forced myself to write something, even if it was a single sentence. Text-to-speech software became my lifeline, reading my words back to catch errors my dyslexic eyes missed. Then ChatGPT came, which helped me a lot. I started to be more productive. Stuck post-it notes on my desk with two words: “Keep going.” And bit by bit, one messy sentence at a time, the book started to take shape.

The Psychology of Creating Through Chaos

Psychologically, writing with ADHD, dyspraxia, and dyslexia is like navigating a storm in a rowboat. ADHD, as research from the American Psychiatric Association shows, can make sustained attention feel like chasing a mirage, but it also fuels bursts of hyperfocus—those rare moments when the world fades, and the words pour out. Dyslexia, per studies in Dyslexia journal, rewires how the brain processes language, turning reading and writing into a mental marathon. Dyspraxia, often linked to motor coordination challenges, adds a physical hurdle, making handwriting or typing feel like threading a needle in a windstorm. Together, they create a perfect storm of frustration, but they also forge resilience.

Carl Jung’s work on archetypes gave me a framework to understand those cosmic voices—they were parts of me, guiding me toward wholeness. Brené Brown’s research on vulnerability taught me that showing up, flaws and all, is where creativity lives. Every typo, every scrapped draft, was a badge of courage. Behavioral psychology, like B.F. Skinner’s work on reinforcement, showed me that small, consistent habits—like writing 100 words a day—could build momentum. My neurodivergent brain wasn’t a curse; it was just a different map, and over time I learned to navigate it with patience and grit.

From Struggle to Story

The emotional toll was heavy. Writing meant facing my darkest moments—grief, shame, and the fear I’d never be enough. But it also meant finding meaning, turning pain into purpose. It also required me to cultivate patience and resilience. The archetypes became my allies, each one a facet of me—courage, doubt, hope—urging me to keep going. Practically, I leaned on tricks: a playlist to anchor my focus, dictation apps for dyslexic days, and short writing sprints to tame my ADHD. Structure came later, after years of chaotic notes. It wasn’t pretty, but it was real.

Actionable Steps to Start Your Creative Journey

You don’t need a cosmic revelation to create something meaningful. If your mind works differently, start small and lean into what makes you you. Here’s a step to try:

Write 100 words about a personal goal or dream. 

·       Grab a pen, phone, or voice recorder. Describe something you want to pursue—a trip, a project, or a change. Don't worry about achieving perfection; simply let the words flow.

·       If focus is tricky, set a 5-minute timer and write in a quiet space. Use a voice-to-text app if writing feels daunting.

·       Research in the Journal of Positive Psychology shows expressive writing boosts clarity and motivation, making those 100 words a step toward your truth.

A Glimpse of What’s to Come

That lightning-bolt moment at 33 set me on a path I never imagined. My book, titled The Morph Alchemy of the Animal, is the story of how I faced my chaos—neurodivergent struggles and all—and found my light. It’s a roadmap for anyone who’s ever felt broken and wondered if they could rebuild. With the launch weeks away, I’m nervous but ready to share it. I hope it inspires you to embrace your own messy, beautiful truth.

Thank you for being here and following this wild ride. See you next week for another piece of my story.

What’s a dream you’ve hesitated to chase? Share it in the comments or with a friend—saying it out loud can make it real.

This post is part of a 12-week series chronicling my journey from darkness to completing my book. Follow along every Monday for new stories, insights, and tips to inspire your own path. Want to stay updated on the book launch? Join my newsletter at thrmorph88.com or follow me on X @TheMorph88.