I remember the first time I thought something was very different about me. I was 9 years old, practicing my violin for an upcoming competition and the pressure to perform perfectly loomed. I spent hours alone alternating between crying (at how beautiful the music was) and screaming out loud at myself how horrible I sounded whilst hitting my bow against the music stand (luckily I didn’t break my bow). Somehow, I was aware this wasn’t quite how “regular” people dealt with stress, and though I knew it was odd that I often went from zero to a hundred in a matter of seconds, I didn’t know how not to. Growing up, I was continually told I was “highly sensitive” and needed to “develop a tougher skin.” My erratic behavior was seen as an eccentric artistic temperament — and as a child, much was forgiven. In my teens, it was teenaged angst, and occasionally, when I went too far, I was grounded or got detention. I learned how to cope, but the raging storm inside my brain never quite subsided.