We may not know exactly why, but as parents of children with psychiatric conditions affected by season changes (seasonal affective disorder, SAD), we can be pretty certain when our kids are going to develop their own version of "spring fever." The question is--what can we do about it?

I am lucky enough to have many people out there who love my writing, love my perspective and yes, possibly even love me. Sometimes these people contact me privately, sometimes publically, but either way, I certainly appreciate all the positivity. On the other hand, there is a small, yet amazingly vocal, number of people who hate what I have to say, and yes, possibly hate me. These people tend to denounce me, and what I have to say, publically. And honestly, I don’t mind the differing opinions. Disagree with a point I’ve made? No problem, that’s what the comments are for. But zealous, hateful stances on mental illness, treatments and psychiatry tend to hurt those with mental illness far more than it helps.

My son is 12 and will officially enter the realm of adolescence in a matter of months. I can't tell you how many times I've heard dire warnings and grave well wishes from parents who have been there and know firsthand the unique challenges that go along with parenting teenagers. I've assumed for some time that parents-in-the-know exaggerate the difficulties facing parents of teenagers for comic effect.

I write about Dissociative Identity Disorder in part because I'm disturbed by the sheer volume of false and misleading information about DID. It bothers me that an overwhelming number of online resources are teeming with misconceptions so profound that the end result is a definition of the disorder that further shrouds it in mystery and controversy. Not to mention the fact that nobody seems able to explain it without relying on a misnomer, Multiple Personality Disorder, to do so. It took me a long time to wade through all the jargon and arrive at a definition of Dissociative Identity Disorder that accurately explains my experience of it.

The language of love may have been present at the beginning of my abusive marriage. Honestly, I don't remember. The language of abuse pulled me into negative thinking about my ex-husband, myself, our family, and all dreams I once held dear to my heart. Over time, the words we used as a couple became harsh and either black or white - there was no in between and definitely no love (Verbal Abuse Turns Love Into a Tool of Abuse). Every situation became a problem to solve (his way) and every dream disappeared (because I believed him when he said I didn't live in reality). The language of love ceased to exist.

The issue is that whilst my internal anxiety alarm* is going off like a Trade Unionist in Wisconsin any other feelings I might have are being drowned out. (*Part I) Talking about a revolution. Stop anxiety For all that I may believe in the validity of my anxiety, it comes with far too many unreasonable expectations. I cannot meet them all, which really just makes it a loud, obnoxious sidekick I could do without. I can't evict my anxiety disorder (chronic PTSD), unfortunately. So I've had to find ways ways to fool it: to get my mind thinking as I may not always believe, or to switch racing, anxious thoughts and frustrations onto a different track.

Ah, spring. The days get longer, the nights get shorter. Warm breezes threaten the remaining snow drifts from winter's storms. Almost as soon as the groundhog sees its shadow, swimsuits and light jackets appear in stores. Valentine's candy is replaced by Easter candy and all the bunnies, green grass, and baby chicks you can handle. Even if you live under a rock and miss all these signs, you'll know spring is on its way when you call your child's therapist and find her booked through mid-July. It seems spring not only brings out the birds, bunnies and chocolate eggs with gooey filling. It also brings out the crazy.

My brain is a finite resource. Well, the grey, gooey thing in the skull is finite for everyone. But my brain’s ability to think reasonably is a finite resource. When I write it thinks, thinks, thinks, and then there is a dramatic thud. My brain then stops thinking.

ADHD is a genetic, neurobiological disorder characterized by disregulation of attention, not an inability to pay attention as is commonly thought. In other words, adults and children living with ADHD are able to focus, but they cannot control when they focus.

Whenever a bunch of parents congregate with their children, one thing is inevitable: a little bit of competition flares up amongst the sticky sippy cups and cookie crumbs. Now, I’m not a competitive person by nature—you could run circles around me on the track field or beat me in a game of Scrabble, and it wouldn’t faze or bother me a bit. But when it comes to my daughter, my own flesh and blood, I can’t help by compare her development to other toddlers her age.