Adult ADHD Blog

Archives: December 2007

Holiday Blahs

My ADD self thinks about New Year's resolutions and promises to show up to places on normal people's time.

There's nothing like spending Christmas eve with the father, the stepmother, the sister, and the insane single aunt who gets drunk after a mere two glasses of red wine. Is it the Asian syndrome or what?

Tonight, at dinner, it was hot pot, basically the Chinese version of the fondue—minus the cheese. The crazy aunt started to say inappropriate things once the wine started going. During one cycle of conversation, we chatted about the most annoying seat mates on long flights. I mentioned the gas-passing Indian that a friend had to endure en route from New York to Bombay. The aunt piped up and said, "Once I saw someone masturbating on the plane, and he was really enjoying himself." Sometimes I think the aunt is ADD. I could imagine myself saying something that silly and gross during holiday dinner, which, thankfully, I didn't.

As I noshed on fish balls, beef strips, and tofu, my mind and thoughts started to ricochet about again, as I thought about New Year's resolutions. All day I'd had a pen in hand and an index card in another, ready to write down what has always been empty promises. I promise to drink what I pour, I promise to carry less so that I might shed the nickname "bag lady." I promise not to show up at the wrong floor and door of my dates, simply because I'd forgotten the exact address. I promise to show up to places on normal people's time.

I laugh at the watch the pseudo-boyfriend gave me for Christmas. It could it be a hint to what he hopes for me: that someday I will show up on the dot rather than after a long lull and an apology.

Anyway, here I sit drinking diet Coke and eating chocolate truffles as I continue to think about resolutions, which were, at one time, large and lofty—writing a book, swimming the English channel—only this year I’m thinking of making it lean instead—drink what I pour and shed the bag lady status. Happy holidays.

You're Funny

There are so many days when I wish I could go through a day without stressing, without the magic pills, without the apology ballad, without wondering whether someone can see through to the ADD me.

The mystery man keeps saying, I'm funny. I can't tell what he means, if he’s teasing, if this is a backward compliment. It’s kind of like saying, "I like your hairstyle; it's so 70s-like." He says it in that, "You're very odd, very weird" tone.

It makes me feel funny. I've heard that a lot from the loved ones: "You're so funny." The thing is, I don't even try. Maybe it's the way I talk in race car speed, or the way I change conversations in channel-flipping fashion. One minute I'm chatting about work, the next about what I want to eat, and the next about the dream vacation, or the latest, greatest idea since the Ipod.

The other day I told the mystery man—or should I call him boyfriend—that I was exhausted, too much to do, so stressed out. Then I ended the chat by saying, “Oh, tonight a friend wants to have dinner; want to join?” Silence, and then a resounding order: "Go take a nap."

It’s the first time I’ve been frying-panned by a date. I was stunned, mad, but in retrospect, I realized how funny the whole thing must have sounded. I was so tired and yet I talked about partying. The sister calls it diarrhea, or salad syndrome. She can laugh at it now because she knows about my ADD self, but the mystery man just seemed annoyed.

Lately the tardy syndrome has returned. I'm always running ten minutes behind, if not longer, so much so that the sister said recently she wanted me to meet her at 6:30 for a holiday bash, and not 6:40, since 6:40 for me is really 6:50. I got the message, but felt the sting.

The smart, professional, intelligent self wonders why she can't arrive on time. A couple weeks ago, I told the mystery man that I'd swim with him at 4 pm. I left early but then passed by a pizza parlor, thinking how famished I was. I’d buy a slice for me and maybe him too. It’d be a nice surprise.

Before I knew it, it was 4:05, and then, by the time I arrived on the pool deck, 4:20. That led to the ho-hum "I'm so sorry" ballad. There are so many days when I wish I could just easily, if not swiftly, go through a day without stressing, without having to rely on magic pills, without the apology ballad, without wondering whether a potential lover or date can see through to the ADD me. When I think about it, I look like a deer caught in headlights, frozen in fear and panic. It’s really a terrible way to live and anything but funny.

Birthday Blahs

In celebrating yet another year, let's hope all things fall into place.

Thirty-two. The numbers kind of jangle in my head like disbelief. I spent the birthday on the pool deck, screaming orders at the poor students who couldn't understand my wrath. One of them said that the whole thing felt very disorganized, and I couldn't help but feel the same way.

The pool people are a mess too, having scheduled things that they didn't even put on my calendar. They would call and ring, and be like, "Where are you now?" and I’d be like, “Well it's not on the schedule,” and I wanted to strangle them.

The pscyh man who leads the guinea-pig posse theorizes that we hate the things in others that we hate most about ourselves. It’s like looking in a mirror and saying I hate it, I hate that I’m discombobulated, late, disorganized, and, it got me thinking that I wished I could get rid of all of these warts.

The doctor who has taken an interest in me once again showed up at the crack of dawn to swim with me only to discover that indeed I am anything but a morning person. Once again I showed up 50 minutes late rushing in like a bat out of hell. However, I grinned and pointed out that I was five minutes earlier than last time.

I wonder if it's because I no longer take the magic pills on the weekend, giving myself a break from big pharma—and also saving a few dollars.

Later that night I took the train, returning to suburbia and the family, and celebrating yet another year. Thirty-two. Let's hope all things fall into place.

Mind Boggle

Arriving one molecule at a time is tough work. Could it be the winter?

This morning a graying old lady in the pool locker room observes the gear, bags and other crap I have spread across the locker room bench and says, "Doesn't that drive you crazy?"

It isn't the first time someone has commented on how much stuff I have. Rather than chew her out, I feel somewhat dismayed by the whole thing, and agree with her. "I know, I know," I say. "How do you do it?"

She looks like Ms. Organized. How can she fit all of her fitness stuff into the ice-cube shaped locker? I must look so helpless because she says to me, "You'll get it, I'm sure the next time I see you, you'll get it."

Arriving one molecule at a time is tough work. Lately it's been lethargy, lethargy, exhaustion. Could it be the winter?

Last night a dinner of ice cream and cake, cheese and a bagel. This morning three outfits were changed, lots of web surfing, sucked into napster and almost impulse-purchased another tune. Lately it's been about impulse and feeling, and fending off feeling tired. I've been sleeping like a pig.

Losing Season

32 suddenly sounds incredibly adult and somehow depressing.

Winter to me is "losing season." Losing gloves, socks, that extra layer of clothing. There’s little order in my life anyway. This morning, I shut off the alarm, slept like a pig until 8 a.m., swam, and then hopped into a cab in a frenzy at 10 a.m. to arrive at work, at a very, very tardy 10:30. Lucky thing that I’m not at some widget factory and relegated to time cards. It got me thinking that, somehow, things are unraveling, and that I am paying a premium for these expensive magic pills that are about as useful as a pet rock.

Last night was all aggravation as the mystery man once again called last minute to ask me where I was, because he was at some party near my workplace. That set me boiling, because it would be nice to get notice, wouldn't it, even if he'd rung, say, at 5 p.m.?

I think it gets me into a tizzy because I am so often the same way, last minute, fast changing, unpredictable, either too honest or too elusive to the point of being annoying. It got me thinking that somehow things needed to change.

Tomorrow is my birthday, the big 3-2. I remembered a friend once told me that at 3-2, things just somehow come together. But somehow, it hasn't happened yet and 32 suddenly sounds incredibly adult and somehow depressing.

Apology Parrot

I am perennially late for meetings, the morning swim dates. "Sorry." "I'm SO sorry."

Life has taken a turnaround over the last few weeks. Love is in the cold, frigid December air. My mind is no longer totally fixated on the she-boss, churning out more pieces, but rather on the mystery man who so far has revealed fragments of his life that seem, well, odd. Doorman, bartender, kick boxer... and then there's the travel. I imagine that the only place he hasn't been to is the North Pole, and I think I’m suffering from a nasty case of wanderlust.

But because the opaque attracts me, I continue to deal with what clearly drives me mad. For the life of me, I haven't the faintest idea why I would actually spend several hours at a sports bar watching, of all things, ice hockey. It's crazy, if not nuts, but there's something about the blend of genius, shyness, kindness, straightforwardness, and clearly the mystery that keeps me nodding excitedly when the sports bar invite comes around.

However, evil symptoms of the ADD self have been surfacing again.

I am perennially late for the weekly guinea-pig meetings, the morning swim dates on Saturday, with the student checking and rechecking her watch. I've been apologizing in parrot-like style. "Sorry." "I'm so sorry." Life feels like one big apology—even to the mystery man whom I clearly adore.

However, there is humor in the bleak winter too. At the Meet-up finale, I am 15 minutes late, and would have been a record 45 minutes late if I hadn't had spent $15 on a cross town cab, huffing and puffing my way into the coffee cafe where the fellow ADDers are clearly on time.

But when my ADD self is surrounded by those who are just like me, I feel at home. It's like a pair of sneakers, compared to the shiny sexy black heels that I tromp about in most of the time. I feel like I am in the pilot's seat, able to emerge as an expert rather than someone ditzy, forgetful, a bit insane.

I feel free. This is a classic ADD meeting, conversations veering about like third-world traffic (no traffic cop in sight), tangent central, and I am able to emerge as someone who sympathizes too.

There was a young man who said he'd been diagnosed 10 days ago, and said he thought there were only a few ways to "cure" ADD—medication or not, organizer (yes or no). I recognize the edge in his voice. Maybe at some point he'll start to see some light even in what feels at times like a New York City sewer.

Someone had the idea of going round-robin and sharing our most embarrassing ADD-related stories. There was the woman who admitted that she once had a cabinet packed with unwashed dishes, but, thanks to FlyLady, the habit had died down. A young man described a studio apartment that seemed more like a double dare obstacle course, with brown boxes everywhere.

I shared something intimate, something I once regarded as shameful. I'd been accused of washing dishes with water only and with no detergent, my comeback being "I want to save money" to the annoyed father.

There was also the episode at work the other day where the IT man lifted up the computer monitor after it had stopped working. I was speechless by the mess of crumbs, the coffee and soda stains, the coins stuck in the sticky mess.

"I inherited this from someone else a year ago," I spat out.

The man wasn't amused. "If you bought a new house and the bathroom was filthy, would you not clean it?"

OK, so he was a bit harsh, but somehow he believed me. "You’re so neatly dressed that I know it's not you," he said. The episode sparked me into buying a bottle of Mr. Clean. Dire situations spark dire solutions. Everyone laughed and somehow I felt that my lateness was forgiven at least for now.