Adult ADHD Blog

Archives: February 2008

Boredom

The daily routine feels like a straitjacket. Am I battling impatience—an ADD trait—or depression?

Boredom sets in and hits like a boulder. I’ve been at the job for a year and plus. Supposedly there’s still lots that I could learn, and yet I feel caged.

It’s painful getting through the day; routine feels like a straitjacket. Get up, go to the subway, squeeze into a relentless crowd where there are no smiles, arrive at work, turn on the computer and start scanning what and who to write about next. I’m trying to figure out if it’s boredom or if it’s depression. Either way, it feels terrible. I dream of Paris, Rome, I dream of traveling all over the world. I dream of running away most of the time.

I thought that going away would help, that skiing through the beautiful snow-covered mountains would take away the blah, only it’s worsened it, in the worst of ways. I returned on Saturday night feeling like happiness and enthusiasm was fast slipping—not a nice feeling at all.

Everything I once dreamed of at work I’ve gotten, and yet I’m not happy. Today, I felt like a storm was raging inside. A lot of it had to do with the non-boyfriend who basically never emails, never calls, never text messages. I call him the anti-boyfriend. I’ve come to the conclusion that I really don’t know what I want, and I just want to be left alone. I need time to think and ponder. I need time by myself.

The non-boyfriend is unsatisfactory in that he does what he wants, but I’m not getting what I want. I want a relationship, I want someone who will e-mail me back, I want someone who will respond to my needs and ask how I’m doing. He’s not pleasing me, so why should I continue with this? Why should I be with someone who doesn’t meet my needs? I am told that one of the traits of ADD is impulsivity and impatience, and right now that’s what I battle. I want to call him and rattle off everything that I dislike about him, while in truth, I should ignore him. I sit alone as it rages inside me, and I want it to end.

I gabbed with a girlfriend today, about the misery at work, about the misery within—why can’t I be happier? I have almost everything I wanted... right? I whined about boredom, feeling like it was so hard to finish something. I whined about the non-existent men in my life, about finding it hard to keep up with conversations, and she said to me, “Maybe you’re not ADD, maybe you’re a sadist.” I thought about it for a while and wondered if perhaps it was true. Maybe I am a sadist and am simply attracted to misery.

An Un-romantic Getaway

Is it true that adults with ADD are attracted to the superficial and not very good at relationships in the long run?

Ahhh, home sweet home in New York City.

Somehow it was heaven crossing the Triborough Bridge, and once again seeing the skyline through the wintry haze. Last night, it snowed a record six inches.

Five days away with the pseudo-boyfriend and well what can I say, I’m bored, I’ve had enough. I’m sort of in a state where I feel like I’m in a fork in the road and not sure where to head next. What next? Who next? Next fling, next romance?

I remembered what the Buddha man said about ADDers. They are attracted to the superficial and not very good at the long run—relationships don’t work.

I remembered a fellow ADD woman who talked about being with her boyfriend. She’d been married once before. She said that the boyfriend was smothering; she needed space. At the same time, she was incredibly impulsive and controlling, and said that she wanted to strangle the boyfriend when he did what she thought was a haphazard job on the laundry.

The pseudo-boyfriend is getting boring to me, because he’s not, well, very romantic—or even very interesting when it comes to conversation. The chat as of the past two months has been about Obama and Hillary, the lesser of the two evils. Every time there’s a silence, it’s filled with banter about Hillary’s hair, her makeup, or how she’s messed up the campaign.

And he’s not very sexual either. The most sexual thing that we did, to my suggestion, was sit in the Jacuzzi together and give each other showers as we sipped cheap red wine. At my suggestion, mind you.

Perhaps the only time he perked up was when the ski trail was groomed. He’s a cross-country maniac, and I just sit here like OK, what’s new about this, next? However, on the flip side, the ADHD medication really hasn’t been working, as I’ve been acting wackier and wackier; I can be childish, can curse on a whim, can topic-jump faster than the weather. I can be petulant, can pout, can change orders at the restaurant on a whim, and can be very critical at the drop of a hat.

Case in point: One night at a nice restaurant, I looked at the menu, didn’t see the flavor I wanted in the ice cream section and asked the waitress if I could ask for something different and get another flavor. The date looked surprised and said, “What, I thought you wanted that flavor?” The waitress looked like she was ready to throw in the towel and quit, and probably wondered how she even got in the predicament in the first place.

On the down side though, I don’t think it’s meant to be: He was quiet during the whole ride home, doesn’t want to share anything about himself, and of my gifts, he just tore open the wrapping and didn’t seem to say anything nice about my giving them to him. That’s not very nice. In the end I deserve better.

A Respite

If he asked about my ADD meds, I would lie and say it was Tylenol. The diagnosis still feels like a mark of shame.

Rather than go insane, I've decided to take a vacation with the mystery man up in the white mountains of New Hampshire, where I am on my second day Nordic skiing. The ADD self is like a sponge, drinking in all of these different interests.

Yesterday, it was a ride up on an old cog railway. The moment I sat on the soot-soaked machine, I thought, “Wouldn't it be interesting if I wrote a book about the history of trains,” — as if no one else had ever thought of it before. And along the way, as the train heaved up the incline, I thought of the history of the railways and the poor men who must have labored and toiled over its construction.

For two days I’d skipped the meds, too lazy to search for them. I’d overpacked as usual, originally bringing with me five winter coats. The roommate must have thought I was moving house, but then the mystery man said, "Do you need this many coats?" I shook my head, feeling like a 6-year-old; no sir, I don't. Yesterday though I decided I needed the meds for the fear that too much time off of them would have some dangerous adverse effects. Funny that a year ago, I wouldn't even open a bottle of pills. Now they seem like a security blanket. The mystery man hasn't asked about the meds yet. If he did ask, I believe I’d lie and say, "Oh you mean Tylenol, I take it every day, good for women's bones." I’d be too ashamed to admit the ADD; it still feels like a mark of shame and given how critical he's been of the cuisine, snow, weather, and work, I’m weary of being laughed at.

This romantic fling has been interesting. The mystery man doesn't like children, considers them a bit like a thorn on the side. He grimaced at the trio of screaming rug rats next to us at breakfast this morning, blatantly asking for an aspirin as the parents and grandmother were there. I have to admit that the crying and screaming was grating to me too, convincing me that despite my ticking biological clock, one shouldn't have children for selfish reasons. When the rug rats finally got up, the grandmother turned to us and said, "Now you have peace and quiet." For a split second, I thought of that moment during mass when we turn to our fellow churchgoers and say, "Peace be with you." I almost did that to her. The very thought made me laugh, finally.

February Funk

Is there a dating site for ADDers? If not, some ingenious tech geek should launch one.

I’ve been in a funk: a writing funk, job funk and even swimming funk. First of all, I found another patch of gray hair today and took out the tweezers again. It got me thinking that rite of passages are fascinating. When you're six and lose a tooth, you get money from the tooth fairy. At 32, you get a patch of white hair, and it's a reminder that you're no spring chicken anymore. Enough about that.

I have continued to try to embrace my ADD self, and at times it feels fruitless. Several weeks ago I attempted to organize a small gathering of fellow ADDers; dinner at a diner where we could chat about the challenges of ADD and maybe I would be able to find some hot and smart ADD guy who is in a similar funk as me. (Is there a dating site for ADDers? If not, some ingenious tech geek should launch it.)

So go figure that last minute, I get a flurry of "Sorry, I can't make it" from the group. I had already started to walk to the diner all revved up for a fun night, and then I find myself on the cell phone saying to people, who are just like me, "That's OK, I understand, next time, next time." Sometimes it helps to get a taste of my own medicine. The funny thing was I wasn't mad. It didn't seem to matter because the ADD self is so used to broken promises, half-baked projects. It always seemed like the norm.

Where I’ve hit a wall in the past week was being bogged down with a writing piece with a gazillion names, ages and titles. I mean literally there were at least 50 names in this article, and I’m sitting with all of these pieces and struggling and drowning. I try and try and then I hand in the piece, and the boss comes back and asks me why so many names are missing. And once again there are no excuses. Argh!

In reflection, I wonder if I’m getting bored and am unconsciously messing things up again. It’s like the pile of tax returns that sit on the floor that is fast disappearing under a landmine of piles. The maid that the roommate brings in twice a month has already wondered if I am just being polite when I tell her that she doesn't need to clean under the piles. The roommate doesn't understand why I don't schlep over to the Goodwill and just get a bookcase or at least some bins. To them, the piles are nonsensical and an irritant, and, to me, they are a norm and the only way to function.

To top it off of course, today is the dreaded V-day, a holiday invented by some twisted soul who was broken hearted and bitter and decided that he wanted to torture those of us who aren't unlucky in love, and being in the heart of bright lights, big city doesn't help either. The messengers scurrying about with roses, chocolates and stuffed animals are in my face.

So I decided to strip myself of ego and ask the pseudo boyfriend if he'd hang out with me on Valentine's Day. Am I pathetic or what? He mulled over it for about a day and then asked me if I was inviting him out. It’s sad, right? A girl asking a guy out on Valentine's Day but what the heck. At least I won't be glued to a couch and eating a pint of Ben and Jerry's. Haha.

A Cracked Plate

On a date, I called the man by the wrong name (What was his name?) It's a sign that I should pause and stop.

A bad case of senioritis, of a plate too full and about to crack once again. Last night, I tossed and turned in a fitful sleep. The roommate left for the left coast, and is visiting the folks. The apartment is now all mine again (I sound like a spoiled child, don't I?).

However, the ADD self is resurfacing stronger than ever. A grand sign was yesterday night as I dashed from work to the church. (Yes, Thursday evenings is Catholic church class. Ever since I mentioned that to the mystery man, aka the anti-boyfriend, he's been silence like a sphinx. Didn’t even comment about it.) I huffed and puffed and plunged into the class, with 16 other people already there. I barely made it on time and was red in the face from the cold.

In order to make life tick I’ve been spending a lot of moolah; I outsourced the laundry, which cost a grand $11 because I had to tip the laundry boy; came close to once again turning to Fresh Direct for grocery shopping; outsourced the stained skirt and bag to the dry cleaner around the corner.

The nomadic thoughts continue to drift. Yesterday morning, I also had a hard time leaving the house because I thought of buying a new bathing suit, thought of getting a waxing, getting a manicure, fretted over guy troubles. It was 9:45 a.m. by the time I made the mad dash to the already mad subway stop. I am always breathless and sweaty at each destination, and I look like a deer caught in headlights.

There are signs that one should pause and stop. On a date, I called the young man by the wrong name, what was his name? Last night after I’d fallen into slumber, I was awaken by a knocking on the door? Here was the New York moment when I’d finally be robbed and raped I thought, so terrified I couldn't move. The knocking stopped and then continued. I wondered if it was the crazy neighbor across the hall who has a busted door that sometimes locks her out. Then this morning, the mystery was solved. My keys were hanging on the door, and the knocker was trying to see if maybe something was wrong.

As for men, i feel like giving up, how dare god invent these creatures who cause me so much pain and heart break? Maybe I’m in the ‘pity me’ attitude because it's Valentine's Day around the corner.

The wonderful thing about keeping insanely busy is that I’ve become somewhat numb to the anti-boyfriend. So what if he doesn't call or email anymore, I don't need more stress and baggage in my life but I’ll take the free meal.

The ADD Brain Lady

I'm paying a shrink to listen to me and he almost falls asleep, making me feel as small as an ant.

After a morning of slaving away at the office, I surfaced and went to the psychologist woman, who I've nicknamed the brain lady.

She's kind and listens to me, a breath of fresh air compared to the Buddha man who had the nerve to nod off the last time I saw him a week ago. I felt like I was talking to a piece of stale cheese. I started off by telling him about my guy crisis, how every single man is a serial commitment-phobic. How much I love the mystery man but how he won't respond to my phone calls and emails, and the man's head drops to his chin as if he were narcoleptic.

I felt as small as an ant. I'm paying someone to listen to me and they almost fall asleep. "I know that what I'm saying might sound boring to you, but it's still important to me," I said.

The brain lady asked me about the mystery man, about my weekend, I told her that I've been suffering from cabin fever and wanting to do something out of this world like fly to Paris on a whim. I want to find a new gig, a fun gig. I want to go to a place where I need not worry about taxes, dirty dishes, laundry and holding on to relationships. She listened and told me to go back and make a list of my goals, everything I want for myself, if I could create a life, how would I do so. I grinned at the thought of making another list. I am a list addict after all, which she doesn't know about me yet. Some things are meant to be kept a secret.

Chained to My Desk

I need a new gig for the ADD me. How can I sit in a cubicle and write for a business magazine when I can't figure out the tip for the waitress?

At work, in cubicle land, I find myself struggling with getting things done. With the nemesis gone, there is twice the work to do, harder and tighter deadlines. I am the first one at work everyday. I am there before the secretary, before the coffee pot gets going, before the newspapers are laid out, and I am the last to leave. I am chained to my desk in silence and can't really chit chat because if I do so, I can't get anything done. I wear earplugs because I am allergic to noise.

To the casual observer, I am the typical Asian lady, a worker bee with her nose stuck in work, work, work, but I am anything but that. I would love to play, love to waltz around and make small talk. I'd love to shoot the breeze, but I can't multi-task so I settle with a one-track mind. There are things about ADD that are wonderful too though, like a colorful mind.

The sister reminds me that I so need to find a new gig. How can I sit in a cubicle and write for a business magazine when I can't even figure out the tip for the taxi driver or the waitress?

I need to do something where I'm churning out ideas like the elves during Christmas crunch. Where can I find a gig like that? I wonder. In truth I wish I could just spend the day shopping, having afternoon tea at the Plaza, and pack my iPod with iTune songs. I want to be a professional slug. =)

Changing My ADD Ways

To prove that I'm not the world's worst listener, I avoid surfing the net and force myself to press the cell phone hard against the ear.

Today at the writing powwow, the instructor once again makes a jab at me, and asks me if it would help if he wrote me a reminder about getting in the next assignment, as if deadlines didn’t exist in the ADD world. Ever since I’ve exposed myself, I feel all the more vulnerable to his comments. I am more than a student in the class, I am an ADDer. OK, so maybe I’m being a little overly sensitive, but I’m annoyed. I’m not the only one late to class.

Last night, the sister calls in crisis mode; she hates the new job, she hates the coworkers, she hates sitting in the corner. Despite having a shitty day, I feel a need to prove to her that I’m not the worst listener in the world, so I force myself to press the cell phone hard against my ear and listen to every word. I avoid surfing the net as she whines and whines. I try to sound extra sympathetic. ‘I’m sorry,’ ‘that’s terrible,’ and ‘why don’t you see how it goes.’ In the past, she’s complained that I just don’t listen, so I do everything in my ability to prove her wrong.

Fizzling Romance

My ADD eats into my love life, leaving me feeling empty and starved as Valentine's Day approaches.

The mystery man, the one who I love and think about, has kind of fizzled from my life. On our last date, I made up some excuse and said I wanted to celebrate the Year of the Rat with him. I booked a too-expensive brunch at the River Cafe with a pristine view of the Brooklyn Bridge and Hudson River. A few tables away, I spotted Dick Parsons and a woman who looks like Beyonce (God I wish I had her body!).

I sat there fuming and close to tears because I got the subway directions wrong and had really wanted to give him a surprise. Instead I was forced to set my ego aside and say, "Umm, I need your help."

How many times have I left behind an item of clothing, been late, had to apologize for forgetfulness and being a ditz? What should have been a glorious and happy day over a very expensive brunch was semi-bitter. I sat there and sulked and wondered why I never get the guy I want, why is it that the man who I love isn't available and is a classic commitment-phobic. He wouldn't eat the pecan-flavored oatmeal placed in an eggshell. I’d forgotten that he didn't like eggs, but I didn't care and seethed, "Maybe we should have gone to the pizza place instead." After I said that, he took a bite, but later I felt ashamed knowing very well that I should have been silent instead. There was no humor in my voice; I was about to crack.

Increasingly, finding someone organized and anal becomes important, as I realize that I not only have to search for prince charming, but a prince charming who is Mr. Clean (or maybe someone who is a tax auditor). This limits the kind of men who I will find. This is where ADD eats into my love life. The other day and today, I thought briefly that I might want to just tell the mystery man about my predicament, my disorder, my handicap, and what is a bottom-line pain in the neck. I wonder what he might say, but more disturbingly he rarely asks about me and my life. It leaves me feeling empty and starved as V-day approaches.

Creative Confabs

When I share my ADD story, I waver between wanting sympathy and wanting none at all.

Wednesday is creative writing night. I sit among a group of strangers and do that striptease thing. I've been writing about my ADD and found that there are certainly downsides to sharing the ADD self. They read about my ADD escapades and they say that I have a great sense of humor, but there's an underlying sorrow and layer of low self-esteem.

Every time I'm late, the instructor says, with a smile, "Well, you made it." Someone slipped in after me and he says, "Well, you're not the only one." He's trying to make me feel better, only I feel like I'm five years old. I waver between wanting sympathy and wanting none at all.

There is a new shrink, a tall, lanky woman who I'll call the psych lady. I've traded the Buddha man for her, because somehow I feel like I have the worst luck with him. The last session I had it written down that we'd meet at 8:15 and somehow he had 7:30, and he came close to saying, "I know you're wrong." After all, who has ADD here? I had a measly five-minute session with him and handed him the $25 co-pay in anger.

"So much for helping people," I mumbled, wanting to slam the door in his face. I huffed and puffed and called the psych lady, asking to see her that afternoon. Finally, someone who will listen to me about my guy problems, who seems to care about my dumb luck when it comes to emotionally unavailable men.