This month, I’ve been watching, and pausing, blockbusters made with the assistance of the American military (I’m hunting for high-definition explosions). The crux of the military-entertainment complex is that the military provides film productions with access to equipment, but only if scripts are vetted by the U.S. Department of Defense. This relationship can result in some pretty saccharine narratives, where accuracy is sacrificed so soldiers and their leadership are portrayed as competent and noble. These productions usually have the most impressive explosions, though.

My artistic inspirations (obsessions?) can lead me anywhere. I’ve spent several years researching clipper ships and their workings for a script I may eventually finish – and my recent quest for realistic explosions meant I watched Pearl Harbor more intently than I ever thought was reasonable. FYI: the action doesn’t start until the ninety-minute mark.

I used to fight my tendency to go down niche rabbit holes until the small hours, and at other times tried to just accept that it was part of my personality. Until someone asked me, quite pointedly, about my current hyperfixations. It wasn’t the first time I’d felt exposed by words I didn’t entirely understand. Eventually, I was compelled to familiarise myself with neurodivergent terminology.

It can be quite mortifying to read about the traits of Autism and ADHD when you’re an undiagnosed forty-year-old. Traits like time-blindness, hyperfocus, executive dysfunction, sensory overwhelm, alexithymia (and I could go on) land with eerie familiarity, but nothing prepared me for learning about RSD (Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria).

I’ve always known I was conspicuously sensitive. As a queer artist, I’ve never seen that as a problem. But RSD is something else. In short: every perceived failure, every ignored message or unfollowing, every negative review hits like a gut punch. And not a mild one. A catastrophic one.

This stuff is hard to explain without sounding dramatic, but I’ve come to realise that the only thing more exhausting than living with executive dysfunction is trying to pretend that you’re not. My long period of learning, followed by a reluctant self-diagnosis, and then a professional one, brought relief from decades of telling myself to try harder and just be better. What I really needed was to stop and say: “This is not working. I am constantly pushing beyond my capabilities, and I am not weak for needing help.” Listening to an episode of Jen Kirkman’s You Are A Lot podcast recently, I heard it wonderfully put: “My ADHD signs me up for more than my autistic brain can deliver.”

Anyway, I’m off track. I’m not going to go through all my revelations here, but I do want to touch on RSD again. As an artist, opening yourself up to criticism is part of the job, and something I’ve become better at, now that I can identify what my mind is doing and take steps to redirect it. For many years, I was so paralysed by rumination that I would do anything to dull my thoughts. I went through periods of drinking and smoking weed to try and relax, or overcommitted myself so there was always something to obsess over…

Where was I going with this? OK – Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria.

In 2010, Mark Amery reviewed a group exhibition I had artworks in and ended his review by saying my work did nothing for him. I stopped making art for over a year after that. In my Honours year of postgrad, I invited my high school drama teacher to a small screening of my short film, and he snored loudly the entire time. Given the size of the audience, it felt like a very deliberate statement. This was the same teacher who had once encouraged me to make films in the first place. It did a huge number on my self-confidence.

It’s taken years to get over those slights and to understand them. Over time, I’ve learned that someone’s opinion, no matter how authoritative it seems, is not the final word on my worth or potential. I’ve found strength in returning to my practice for myself, not to impress anyone.

One of the most healing things I’ve discovered in dealing with RSD is laughter. Sometimes, the best medicine is being able to step back and see the absurdity of it all – to admit, yes, maybe I created a trainwreck, but it was MY trainwreck. That’s the risk you take when you create and share your work with the world. And sometimes, the criticism says more about the critic than about you.

I remember when I first met that snoring high school drama teacher. I asked if he was the same Davram Chumbles (not his real name) who’d written a glowing review of a NASDA show I had a bit-part in when I was about ten or eleven. He said, “Yes, but I only gave Nine a good review because I’d just written a scathing one about something else and didn’t want a bad reputation.”

Now that I’m around the same age he was then, I can’t imagine saying something like that to an eager 12-year-old excited about drama class. It makes me laugh. Maybe not always living up to others’ expectations has left me with the ability to not take everything so seriously.

I wanted to talk about my short film Fling – a project that, on the surface, could look like a failure. It dragged on far longer than intended, mostly due to my own executive dysfunction and undiagnosed neurodivergence at the time. But the truth is, I finished it. Multiple times, in fact. And honestly? I’m amazed I completed something of that scale at all. It may never meet neurotypical standards of success, and I may not have delivered the updates or prestige some stakeholders hoped for, but I treated the project with care and gave it everything I had. Like most ambitious things I attempt, it was made with deep respect and all my efforts, and for that, I remain extremely proud.

Now, I’m off to paint some explosions. Since deciding to limit my super-professional Instagram account to only feature art, I’ve found myself weirdly compelled to make art that tries to say something. Funny that.

Thanks for reading.

Ed