I sat down to write at nine this morning. By nine-thirty, I had a fresh Word doc open, three tabs of research that had nothing to do with the chapter, and a cold cup of coffee that had already been reheated twice. ADHD isn’t a personality quirk. It’s an empire-level sabotage system lodged in my brain. People call it distraction. I call it living in collapse.
Let’s be clear: writing craft guides lie. They preach order. They draw straight lines. They want neat arcs, balanced structures, obedient characters. That’s empire propaganda disguised as advice. ADHD writers don’t draft in arcs. We draft in glitch bursts. One second it’s dialogue. Next second it’s an apocalypse note scrawled on the margins. Empire wants flow. ADHD delivers shrapnel.
That’s not failure. That’s raw survival. Every draft is rubble I drag into something resembling story. Some days it feels like dragging bricks barefoot through broken glass. Other days, it’s wildfire across the page. Neither fits the empire’s “sit down and focus” sermon. And honestly? Screw their sermon.
People without ADHD think collapse starts when governments topple. No. Collapse is missing a deadline because the dishwasher beep hijacked your brain. Collapse is staring at your outline until your neurons fry, then hyperfocusing on reorganizing your folder structure at two in the morning. Collapse is not a metaphor. It’s daily life. The empire of routines, productivity apps, and “just try harder” collapses on my head every damn day. And still, I write. That’s not weakness. That’s insurrection.
Take today’s chaos log:
-
Woke up already late because I forgot to plug in my phone.
-
Spent an hour rewriting my to-do list instead of doing anything on it.
-
Hyperfocused on designing a fake propaganda poster for a dystopia book instead of writing the chapter the poster belongs to.
-
Remembered at lunch that I never started the laundry.
-
Finally sat down to write at 4 p.m. with the energy of a war criminal hiding in the sewers.
That’s collapse arithmetic. That’s the math of ADHD. And somehow, words still get out. Not neatly. Not in the order I want. But they come, jagged and raw, like contraband smuggled past guards.
This is why RAW Empire exists. The branding doesn’t bow to polished empire aesthetics. It embraces fracture. Logos are scratched, slogans distorted, colors clashing. It’s a deliberate refusal to obey the “clean design” cult. Clean is empire language. Collapse is ours. The bunny isn’t cute. It’s dangerous. It stares through you like a dissident scrawling graffiti at midnight. “Follow the Bunny” isn’t a brand line. It’s a coded threat.
Daily life chaos feeds the brand. ADHD survival makes the aesthetic honest. Writing craft fuels the rebellion. They aren’t separate topics. They’re the same damn empire wearing different uniforms. Productivity, branding, cooking dinner, finishing a book—they all run on collapse math. They all demand resistance.
So here’s my pissy takeaway for writers, survivors, and anyone else trying to function in ruins: stop worshiping order. Stop buying the empire’s story that your brain is defective because it doesn’t line up in neat rows. Stop thinking collapse is failure. Collapse is the setting. You’re the story.
Messy drafts are real drafts. Missed laundry is the price of survival. ADHD chaos isn’t proof you’re broken. It’s proof you’re already living in the empire ruins, and you’re still making art out of rubble. That’s not a flaw. That’s contraband strength.
Call it distraction. I call it the daily rebellion. And rebellion, in any empire, is the only thing worth writing.