Impulsivity Isn’t Just Recklessness.

When people hear “impulsive” or “risky behavior,” they picture extremes, drugs, violence, crime. The textbook definition is clear: actions that put us at risk. But for me, impulsivity wears a different face. One that’s quieter, but no less destructive.

It looks like spending money I don’t have on things I don’t need, while my bills sit unpaid. It looks like skipping meals to afford a piercing or a tattoo, not because I want to decorate myself, but because I need to feel something. Anything. These choices come fast and hard, and they feel like relief in the moment. But later, they feel like shame.

I’ve gotten better. I’m learning. But the pattern still lingers.

I refuse to ask for help, even when I know it would make things easier. Even when I’m drowning. Because help feels like weakness. Like surrender. Like giving someone the power to hurt me. So I struggle instead. I isolate. I make things harder than they need to be.

And then there are the thoughts. The ones social media tries to romanticize, impulsivity dressed up as dyeing your hair or wearing something wild. But mine aren’t cute. Mine whisper things like, “What if you just drove into the guardrail?” or “What if you took all your pills at once?” Not because I want to die, I don’t. I truly don’t. But the thoughts are loud. Debilitating. They hijack my brain and leave me gasping for clarity.

It’s not about wanting an end. It’s about wanting escape. A pause. A break from the noise.

I wish people understood that impulsivity isn’t always visible. It’s not always dramatic. Sometimes it’s subtle. Sometimes it’s masked as self-expression. Sometimes it’s a cry for help that never gets spoken aloud.

I’m not broken. I’m not reckless. I’m just trying to survive in a brain that doesn’t always feel safe to live in.