Somewhere along the line, the voices in my head that helped me write stories and think through problems started using their powers for evil. Did that really happen, my brain would ask me, or did you just dream it up? It wouldn’t pick at the big, important events; it would just question small details. Did Mom really tell you that, or did you make that up? Are you sure anyone would believe you if you said that out loud? No one else seems to remember that— you’re probably wrong. Your friends will think you’re stupid.
Tiny questions and doubts that on their own didn’t do much but together managed to chip away at the self-confidence that had seemed so effortless growing up. By college, it felt like my brain was some frenemy that might
