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Adult ADHD Blog

Emotional Striptease Blog: Tales of Me, Myself and ADD

Archives: January 2008

A Life of Lists

I am prone to making lists in my mind, at my desk, on the subway. But, when forced to complete the thought, I feel like I’m eating a week of leftovers.

I am prone to making lists in my mind, at my desk, on the subway. I am addicted to little notebooks, stick its, post its. I get this thrill at the very thought of doing something, but the “doing something” excitement fizzles when it's time to get up for bat. Tragic and when forced to complete the thought, I feel like I’m eating a week of leftovers.

Yesterday I forced myself to go to practice. Lately, I’ve been swimming like a slug, mentally not all there, fearful of not being able to read the new digital clocks or understanding the workouts. The coach, a Telly Savalas lookalike, likes me. We exchange few words, but the guy is brilliant. He can see right through me and into my fears. But, as the sister once said, "Even Ray Charles can read you." Last night, he said, "You just need to calm down and relax."

But back to the lists and the swimming. It is only when I swim that I don't make these lists. In the water, I start dreaming up other things, sometimes letting worry infiltrate my thoughts. The other day, I caught a white hair in the mirror, yet another, and began to panic. I am prone to wackiness when that happens. I took out the camera and snapped a picture of myself, seeking out signs of crows feet, laugh lines and wrinkles. That’s where the lists come in: what I want to do by 33, 34, 35, five years from now, ten years from now.

I told the mystery man the other day that it is terrible to have too many choices. I am prone to going to restaurants and annoying the waitresses by flipping through the menu as if it were written in Greek. I admitted the other day to him that my favorite restaurant (if you can call it that) is In and Out, where there are four choices on the menu — hamburger, cheeseburger, with onions or without. If only life were that simple.

Life is pretty simple in the pool, too. There is something very mechanic about just moving one’s arms and legs, a certain rhythm to it, something unlike daily life.

Cabin Fever in the Cubicle

I’ve become a bit panicky at work, having nightmares that I'll be saddled with double the workload. Like maybe I should job-jump again.

The nemesis at work quit and is going to greener pastures. I'm happy that he won't be in my face anymore, but sad that in life, reality so often means that the politically savvy get ahead.

Moreover, I am starting to have nightmares that the nemesis won't be replaced, and I will be saddled with double the workload—then my ADD self will be totally exposed. Since the announcement, I’ve become a bit panicky, like maybe I should job-jump again. The itch has been amplifying, so tempting to find something else. I feel myself getting a bit bored and antsy, cabin fever in the cubicle. The resume already looks like a checkerboard, a tapestry without any pattern. It’s the ADD me again.

On the same end of things, the love life drags, with the mystery man as on and off as an annoying nasal drip. The doctor/swimmer man has disappeared, choosing, perhaps, to focus more on his training for the English channel than any sort of female friendship.

However, the ADD self has been helpful in this scenario, in that I’ve become somewhat bored of them, anyway. Boredom can soften the blow to what could lead to a smashed heart.

Out of the Closet

The thing about exposing yourself as having ADD is that, once you do it, there's no looking back.

To get out of my funk, I’ve been going to a weekly writing workshop, packed with middle-aged women who have lived enough of life to actually have something interesting to write about. The workshop is therapy really—non-fiction—but why is it that everyone has handed in sob stories: adoption, deaths, illegal immigration, abuse. So what the heck, right? I decided to write about my ADD, no big deal. The thing about exposing oneself is that, once you do it, there's no looking back.

The problem with coming out of the closet, so to speak, is that people look at me in a different light. Suddenly, all of the things that were annoying, confusing, and such make sense. The writing professor guy smiled at me as I trolled in 10 minutes late. "Thanks for warning us about your tardiness," he said, referring to my essay titled "ADD and Me." I was 10 minutes late because the subway was stalled. I’m sure the non-ADD population can relate.

I thought I sensed sympathy for the first time too, but I’m not sure I like it. I’d rather be seen as offbeat and slightly ditzy, than disabled. We went around the table round robin, slicing and dicing apart each other’s essays. When it came to me, there was a silence. “What is ADD?” one woman asked? The professor guy thought I needed to include ways in which I cope, and I wanted to laugh. Well, let's see… how do I cope?

I continue to get up at 8 A.M., sleep at 1, do laundry and wash dishes at the most random times, and I continue to pop those magic pills in the hope that they will awaken me. I continue to buy organizers of all shapes and sizes, continue to search for a therapist whom I can trust and respect. I thought about buying a kitchen timer as a cheap version of the "watch minder." And I keep hoping that somehow I will find the right key. I didn't have the heart to say, I don't really cope.

A woman to my right, well dressed, wealthy (by the likes of her Rolex watch), said to me later that her husband and son have ADD, so she could definitely relate to my essay. "Don’t think of yourself as any less. This is as a mother speaking, but you are a high-functioning person. Use your gifts best to your abilities," she said. She was compassionate; I could tell she was genuine. "I can sense there's a bit of shame in your voice—don't be so hard on yourself," she said. Indeed, Richard Branson, the Jet Blue guy, Kurt Cobain, all have it, I started to rattle off. She nodded in sympathy…

Till later.

Learning Boundaries

The ADDers' stories of lost jobs, botched opportunities, misunderstandings, and fears are a reflection of me.

It's the late night ADD group powwow, courtesy of the social networking scene, and once again, I am amused by the characters that have developed within the group. I like to kid myself and call them characters, when, in fact, they are no different than me, an adult with attention deficit disorder.

Their stories of lost jobs, botched opportunities, misunderstandings, and fears are a reflection of me. This is a gathering about me. The group's top dog (the leader of the pack) is actually pretty funny. He's totally clinical and goes into steady medical speak, and then he'll say something offbeat and amusing, and we'll all collapse into laughter.

The conclusion, or perhaps the most interesting question posed, was from a woman who asked, in all seriousness, "What does it mean to be a normal person?"

It's really a fascinating question when I think about it. What does it mean to be a normal person? Normalcy is created from society, from rules and boundaries that society sets. Normalcy is normal to the extent that it doesn't create hardships for the person. I thought to myself, everyone has their hang-ups and quirks; no one comes without a history, without baggage — so why is ADD called a disorder? Why is it considered a mark of shame or the butt of jokes, an excuse disguised as a medical condition?

Why am I trying so hard to program myself to become someone who I am clearly not? I thought of the questions that the Buddha man posed. If I know that I am not going to execute something, why even start it. Why not just put it down on paper, enjoy it and be OK with it, be OK that this is me. Hey, there are plenty of famous ADDers, like Richard Branson, the JetBlue CEO and Kurt Cobain. The theme so far: airline executives and suicidal rock stars.

Then, secondly, why can't I say no to people? Is it my hunger to be loved and accepted, the fear of losing someone as a lover, as a friend? In defense, why can't overweight people stop going to the vending machine? Isn't it obvious that another package of Hostess cupcakes is a bad idea?

For example, I would say no to a wire service, say to a job related to numbers crunching, but at 26 I would have said yes because I hadn't been burned before, because I was convinced that I could do anything. But then you learn about boundaries.

My logical self knows that change is a lifelong process. In order to just say no it takes someone to truly know themselves, and be confident in their skin. Right now my skin feels like a straightjacket, or a pair of shoes that I'd rather not be seen in.

A Broken Record

I know I'm getting better, slowly, steadily — but all this effort and it's about as visible as the wind.

In a desperate attempt to find someone who I can speak to every week. I've been shopping for someone new. Maybe I've found someone. She's a thin, lanky, Hispanic-looking shrink who works closely with the Buddha man. Same practice and such. My ADD self had trouble remembering where her office was the first day, and then of course, on ADD time, I was ten minutes late. She told me she's a cognitive psychologist, and that she's going to help me change my thinking and behavior.

I told her about the mystery man who, with his lack of communication, was driving me up the wall. There's something about his behavior that triggers memories of a mother who neglected me and didn't acknowledge or cultivate my importance. Everything was her, her, her. She wants to buy expensive things, she wanted a dog but it got run over, she wanted a mink coat without considering how expensive the facials were. I know, the past is the past, what can you do? But, it's a scar that I acknowledge every day.

I've fallen back again with the lack of structure of my life; the finances, happiness, and direction are at bay. For the past few days, I've fallen into a deep sleep, each time awakening from a tapestry of dreams, always with the theme of racing to get somewhere and not making it on time, always with the theme of falling short on something and then like a broken record player in my mind, I think of what a boss once asked, "Would you rather have a plate filled with all sorts of food mixed together or a nice steak meal?" A nice meal of course, obviously right, so what's the problem? I know I'm getting better, slowly, steadily — but all this effort and it's about as visible as the wind.

Hope—Maybe

I told her, after a year and a half of being diagnosed with ADD, I was still spinning wheels, searching for the right meds and struggling with this thing called organization.

Lately I’ve been sitting in cubicle land, quite miserable at my existence. This is baby season — people are bringing in their new babies to show off, and I haven’t even a boyfriend to show for. It’s discouraging, because never before have I thought babies were that cute. Now I think they are adorable, and I’m wondering if I’ll ever be lucky enough to date someone for more than two months and walk down an aisle (beside the supermarket aisle).

The only positive light in what has been a dark two weeks is the new shrink. I’ve basically given the Buddha man the boot, and will designate him as the meds man. The new shrink is a tall, lithe Spanish-looking woman who I will call Dr. Ruth.

Once again my ADD self didn’t remember what floor her office was on, and I was a good 10 minutes late. The office was sparse, with a grand, beautiful view of the city on what has proven a freakishly hot day. She sat there, stared at me and asked me why I was there. It turns out that Dr. Ruth doesn’t see other patients with attention deficit disorder, but she sees plenty of women with self-esteem complexes. I told her about the commitment-phobic mystery man, about all of these problems I had in my life. I said after a year and a half of being diagnosed with ADD, I was still spinning wheels, searching for the right meds and struggling every day with this thing called organization.

She asked me when I was happiest. Swimming, I said. I am happiest when I swim alone, when I feel and see the bubbles. Something magical happens after numerous laps, I feel powerful like no one can touch me. I laughed a bit like a madwoman and told her I am also happiest when I can fully be myself, spit out the clever ideas, shop, sun myself on the beach, day-dream. I love it when I can be the free spirit that I am.

She smiled and said that I shouldn’t discount all of the wonderful things about myself too, and that I should stop blaming myself. She also said that life is too short: Focus on those who love you, focus on the here and now.

The session felt like a Hallmark commercial, but I left feeling like there was hope. It felt perfect and similar to the warm air in what should have been a frigid January.

Cooling Off

In the ADD world, everything is living for the moment. Maybe I should cool off a little, and think about what I want for me.

The romance with the mystery man has tapered off. I keep thinking back to the Driven to Distraction book that I’ve read. My ADD self is impulsive and romantic. I’m a sucker for fresh flowers and chocolates. I am keen for instant gratification, and in the end, I get burned.

Since I’ve shared signs of being too emotionally needy — a window into mental instability — the mystery man has backed off as if I were a leper. “I can’t give you what you need,” he says. “I know you have emotional and mental needs,” he says.

He’s very odd because he likes to watch me from a distance as if not to get too close. He likes to watch me from the balcony where he can see me in my Speedo and hot pink cap. Most of my romances have fizzled like meteors: easy come, easy go. In the ADD world, everything is living for the moment anyways. The stepmother, who is the unofficial dating coach from a distance — she should really start charging me — says that I need to cool off a little, and think about what I want for me.

There’s this word in Chinese called yuan fen, translating into “fate.” Two people meant to be will come together even if they try to stay apart. But if you try to grab something that wasn’t meant to be, it will never stick. I’d like to believe it but I also think it’s psychological hocus pocus.

Every Day is New Year's

I had to agree that every day is January 1 for the ADD adult. The resolutions, the promise to be good.

OK, so it's not working—the resolutions, the promise to be good to myself, and to avoid all troubled souls with friendships, dating, and work. I feel like saying that nothing ever does, but that would be wrong, too.

New year's is about new beginnings and working toward resolutions—only here, everything slides backwards. Get up at 7 a.m.; got up at 8 a.m. Sleep at 11 p.m.; slept at 1 a.m. No snacking after 9 p.m.; a pint of Ben and Jerry's and two little candy bars at 11 p.m. No impulse shopping; this morning, the going-out-of-business sale lured me in and once again the credit card became the culprit. It's easy to beat up on yourself. Yes, I'd say so.

Since the roommate left, there's been bad omens. Broken glass dishes, disappearing things, and I can't help but think that I'm reverting to the old self again. A search for outside pleasures and things, the impulse to please, the desire for what others have. How can someone smart be so dumb? Why don't we learn from getting burned?

I've been telling the mystery man (who is on his way out) that I seek alone time to think, solitude time to decide what i want and what would work. OK, bottom line: I think I need to look beyond free ski trips, romantic cabins, and expensive dinners, and say, "Enough of that, what can the person offer me?" I'm smart enough to see the train wreck if I don't focus. I'll revert to old ways, a stressful circle, a magnet for negative people and men, half-drunk glasses, half-eaten meals, and being bogged down by too many bags.

I told the Buddha man the other day that I love making lists. I have this addiction to buying paper and making all sorts of lists, but is it all a dream in the end? The thrill is in the thought, because there is no execution.

A fellow ADDer said to me that every day is New Year's Day for the ADD person. It's funny but I need to agree. Another failed resolution: Wash all dishes after eating? Well, sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes it takes a cockroach or two as a warning. "Why start something when you know it won't be executed?" the Buddha man asks. Good question, I think, maybe it's time to stop that vicious cycle.

Then I looked straight back and joked, I could stop washing the dishes by a, not eating, and b, reverting to plastic utensils... but then friends would look at me oddly anyway, and wonder why every day was a picnic.

Stranger things have happened in ADD land.