A New Friend, A New Man

The new man has accurately and affectionately observed that I am a big-picture girl, but how can he not see my flaws or the scattered ways of adult ADHD?
ADHD & the City | posted by Jane D.

The head honcho probably has ADHD, but because he's so high up on the totem pole, the underlings just smile, nod, and placate the guy—and then scatter at the first chance.

Jane D., ADHD Adult Blog

I am wrapping up week two on the new job now, and, already, I feel, well, like I am flaming out. The problem is that the head honcho probably has ADHD himself, but because he's so high up on the totem pole, all of us underlings kind of smile, nod, and placate the guy, and then scatter when we have our first chance. I am somewhat protected from this for now, since I am located in the Gotham branch, while the headquarters are out in the 'burbs.

That said, I have a counterpart: a girl around my age who is also based in the Gotham office. I already sense an odd tension with her, in part because she shrugs and doesn't give clear directions on tasks that we should be dividing up. I told the father last night that I tend to get along with women who are at least a decade older than me, with kids or a husband. I have a history of butting heads with my compatriots, counterparts, or whatever you'd like to call them.

Despite the insanity at work, things are going well with the new man. We have been seeing each other for two months, despite his moving to D.C. He took the bus to see me this past weekend, and we hung out—caught a ball game, had pizza, watched TV back at my sublet apartment. He says that he's never met a woman like me—there’s something different about me that he can't explain. He says he loves my way with words, these little flashy and catchy phrases that I come up with that make him laugh. "You're so creative, and you don't even try," he says.

There is admiration, respect, and a bit of awe in these compliments, and since I've spent much of my life—including my dating life—being criticized, I am taken aback by this tsunami of compliments. "Jane you're great," he says. "Everything you do makes me happy." He is a doctor, a math whiz, the sort of person who buys a gadget or a piece of furniture, reads the instruction manual, and swiftly assembles things. He calls himself a workhorse, and he has accurately and affectionately observed that I am a big-picture girl.

I sometimes feel like I am in a dream. How can someone not see my flaws, my forgetfulness, the scattered ways of my conversations? The poor guy ends up apologizing half the time when we talk and says, "I'm sorry, I'm all over the place." Little does he know that I am the culprit. I am the one leading him into tangents and changing topics and tunes, but he's so in love that he doesn't see the holes yet.

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