Archives July 2008 June 2008 May 2008 April 2008 March 2008 February 2008 January 2008 December 2007 November 2007 October 2007 September 2007

Jane D. Blog

Emotional Striptease Blog: Tales of Me, Myself and ADD

Archives: March 2008

The Confessional

I'm so scared of getting the ax, so tempted to tell the boss about the ADD. Why not just come clean?

Maybe it's the Catholicism, or maybe the ADD me. Either way, I feel like I'm increasingly feeling guilty all of the time.

The pseudo-boyfriend, the one who I really loved, and gave gifts to, and called and emailed and truly cared about, basically dumped me two weeks ago and then a week ago reiterated that he wanted to be friends. Well, I don't want to be friends.

I keep thinking that things wouldn't have been like this if he hadn't sent flowers and come on so strong, and if I hadn't leapt at him like a dog on a bone. I keep thinking that I should have faked things better, not been blunt about what I thought I needed, and not burst into tears. The tears and outburst caused the breakup.

And then I think, maybe I should come clean and tell him it's the ADD and he might actually feel sorry for me. What do you think? I'm asking everyone for the same advice, and the same advice boomerangs back. "DO NOT CALL, DO NOT EMAIL!"

But he just doesn't understand. Maybe if I told him that I have ADD, that I can say things impulsively at times, maybe he'd take me back. So I feel like I should apologize and say sorry, and that's all I've been wanting: to apologize and say sorry. Now that I know what he's really like, I want to take things back. I want to explain.

The work fears are there,too. I'm so scared that 14 days later, I'm going to get the ax. The counselor woman tells me it will be the best thing that's happened to me,since I don't even like writing about numbers, but I don't want to end up homeless, either. In the same vein, I am so tempted to tell the boss about the ADD, too. Why not just come clean?

Today, I showed the father the letter the boss had written me, and he looked sort of sad. Once again, despite all of the accomplishments, I feel like a failure. Relationships and jobs seem to eventually fizzle, or maybe I should tell them to ratchet up the Adderall.

"Do Not Call Him!"

Is a silent retreat a bad idea for an ADD adult? I found I was OK with not talking, but this didn't stop my ADD mind from running wild.

Silent meditation retreats are such a bad idea for ADDers. It's like asking me to climb Everest in the worst of ways, but mandatory because next week, I'm supposed to become a Catholic. It's no joke. After six months of weekly classes, Easter is the climax. I'm supposed to march up to the altar along with all 18 of my fellow candidates and get baptized. I'm scared shitless. I'm a commitment-phobe, and can now understand why the mystery man, an equal commitment-phobe, would want to back off. Is he afraid, or is he just a jerk? Not sure, not sure why I should even care. It sucks.

So, the retreat was at a little monastery, a commuter train ride away from the city. We were each assigned a matchbox-sized room, no TV, cell phones highly discouraged, wireless and Internet, are you kidding? It was kind of funny because the leaders hadn't really revealed the "silent" part of the retreat to anyone, so day one at breakfast someone talks and immediately becomes the victim of a scolding from one of the leaders. "Shhh, no talking," the leader said. The only problem is saying that to a grown adult who's a man.

I found that I was comfortable with not talking, but this didn't stop my mind from running wild, the thoughts exploding like fireworks on the fourth of July. Only this is no celebration when the mind wanders. During prayers and reflections, I kept obsessing over the mystery man. Did he really dump me, why would he do such a thing? What a jerk, I can't believe it, and what about the work situation, god. Even worse what will I do, the rent is so expensive, I don't want to move home again. I'm 32, single, no guy and surrounded by engaged, married, and pregnant girlfriends. Argh! In the meantime, we were told to crack open the Bibles and let the passages sink in. Nothing was sinking in, and I wondered if maybe I should just make a beeline for the confessional.

At night, we escaped to a bar with awesome calamari, four girls and two guys. We gossiped about the religious leaders, about the whole silent part, about how we were like school children whispering and sneaking notes during class, and then the talk got into the dreaded "R" topic, relationships. I told them about the mystery man, who comes on so strongly, then disappears, then reappears; it's a relationship of convenience, basically. I was sick of it, burst into tears, and then he dumped me. But then I called him and started getting desperately apologizing. "Do not call, stop calling him, do not call," they charged at me.

One guy was funny; he did this little mocking thing with his BlackBerry and said, "The worst thing is I look at my blackberry and say, ‘Shit, it's Amanda or Jenny again.'" The worst thing that you can do is pressure a guy. The worst thing that you can do is call. When you call you, become a doormat—and doormats aren't attractive. Then it's funny, because we get back at 1 a.m. and I set my cell phone to the wake-up alarm, and the two guys actually hear it. They bang on my door and look comically concerned. "Are you calling?" they ask. I shake my head, no way, no sir. "Do not call!" they say simultaneously.

OK, I get the message; don't call, don't try to email anything long, don't do anything beyond a period or question mark, do not do it. But god, I'm so tempted; it's terrible but oh so human and ADD. Impulsive. Heading to the confessional.

Skeletons Emerge

I'm the ADD girl, the one they pat on the back when she's late or loses track of conversations.

The boss feels bad for me in some ways. I can tell she wants to help; she knows that something isn't right. She knows that the subject matter is putting me to sleep. She might even be able to see the ADD, but all she can do is tell me to please think more, do less, read more.

The thing I don't want to admit to the boss is that my ADD mind is spinning so rapidly that I can't get a hold of it. When I start to read something, my thoughts veer like a car spinning out of control. It jumps like oil on a hot pan, splattering all over. This has become a problem when I talk to those finance people who talk in gobbly gook. Not only is the subject a snooze, but also I can't understand them, because I'm so scared I'm not going to understand them. Does this make sense?

I felt blue today, lethargic, zombie-like. Then, I thought, it could be worse. Thank god I'm not in Eliot Spitzer's shoes. I don't understand or comprehend, not out of ill will, but because of my ADD self—how else do I explain it?

Yesterday at the creative writing group, I came in 15 minutes late but everyone was forgiving, because by now everyone knows me as the ADD girl. They pat me on the back when I lose track of conversations, or when I don't follow the meaning of a certain piece of writing. Actually, it's refreshing to get the pity at times, because that's what I sometimes feel that I've missed all along: a pat on the back, some sympathy for what is a chronic disorder that follows me everywhere.

I thought back to sitting in front of the boss as she rattled off the same stuff that most people tell me—you’re such a hard worker, intelligent, it's so fixable, why can't you try harder? At one point in my life, I would have fought back, but not anymore. I sat there, threw my hands up in the air, and said that she was right. I'm frustrated too, and somehow I still feel so unforgiving toward the ADD me.

Uh-Oh (The Warning Letter at Work!)

Ms. Boss is dead on with my anxiety, disinterest, lack of focus. Could I blame it on ADD?

The boss asked me to stay and chat with her after the weekly meeting today, and, please, close the door. Uh oh. Every time I hear "close the door," it freaks me out. I imagine that I'm being kidnapped and about to get the guillotine.

She said that she got two phone calls in a week about sources (aka clients) who were concerned that I didn’t understand what they were talking about. Shit, because they are so right, she is so right. I’ve been bored and not interested in the stuff for the past few months. I’ve been anxious about the writing, about things, about the people around me. I’ve been jittery about my nemesis leaving and where that would leave me. I was freaking out, my thoughts scattered—and now I was caught and forced to face myself.

She said, from an outside point-of-view, I seemed anxious again; nervous, jittery, why was this happening? She thought that it might be one of the reasons why I don’t get the material. If my anxiety is code red, how can I get the stuff, and on top of that, if I take no interest in financial journalism, how can I further my knowledge in things? She has this image of me as a nervous squirrel trying to gather nuts for the winter. I had to laugh at that one.

I also marveled though at how she could read me so well. It’s brilliant in many ways even if I am an easy read. She is on the mark with my anxiety, disinterest, lack of focus, all of this energy being directed nowhere, all of this talent going nowhere. She's right. I could be so much better than I am. I sat there frozen, thinking I could blame it on the ADD.

At the end of what seemed like eternity, she took out a three-page letter that basically outlined what she said, and asked me to sign it. It was protocol, she said, but on the other hand, it would be helpful to both she and I. The letter was a bit funny though; it seemed to be addressed to someone else, and secondly, we didn't really have a plan of action, did we? That’s what made me wonder if she was just trying to ax me; after all, I play one role at that place.

I got sad and started thinking, “I’m going to just give up,” but it isn’t me. I’m not willing to give up without putting in a good fight. She asked me, please do less—but look into things deeper. I thought to myself, why in the world is she waiting to do this now. Why didn’t she do this a month ago or even two months. When someone doesn’t reassure me or show interest, I tend to back off. All I wanted the whole time was a pat on the back, some attention, and now I was getting it, in the worst of ways.

Somehow though, it always ends up this way. It’s such a struggle to get things done, it’s such a struggle to focus. All of this talent for what? I wanted to burst into tears. For comfort, I left work and turned to the pseudo-boyfriend who is really a very good friend. He cared enough to meet me at a bar and talk about the predicament, even though I ended up paying for the meal. Who cares, at least he showed up? Over cosmos, beer, hamburger and chef salad, he told me to chill out.

Yes, getting a warning signal isn’t optimum, but it’s also an opportunity to make lemonade out of lemon. I should go to her and say, Ms. Boss Woman, here is an option that I have, but I need some time to work on it and I guarantee you will see changes; can we agree on this? The friend guessed that this was her way of lighting the fire under my ass and also covering her ass. After all, complaints from the outside can’t be good, but why in the world wasn’t she protecting me, too?

Anyway, the cosmos felt good, as did the salad and such. For a while, I stood in the middle of the street thinking that I wanted to get run over by a taxi. (It would make life so simple?) On the other hand, the thought was fleeting and finally I’d arrived at the conclusion that nothing is permanent. At the end of the day, the ball was in my court. I either needed to give it my all or leave.

Plant Killer

Today was one of those god-awful days when I felt like my self-esteem was in the sewer.

The betta fish is sick again; the fin rot has returned. At night, it thrashes against the pebbles, perhaps looking to bury itself. The red pineapple-styled plant that was purchased over the summer is officially dead. A few days ago, I found a baby roach crawling on it, and I finally snipped off the stump that was once a flower. I was going to throw it in the garbage, but, out of guilt, I brought it back to the flower store on the way to work. When the Asian florist looked at the plant, he looked like he was going to burst into laughter.

"Do you think it can be saved?" I asked. "Do you think it will grow back?" He was going to lie through his teeth, I could tell.

"Yes, but not the same as before," he said.

"So throw it away?" I asked.

He sort of nodded. No one wants to admit that there's no more hope, but he grabbed the plant, separated it from the pot and discarded it. The end of the plant.

I kept thinking that life would be wonderful if relationships were as simple as plants: You enjoy them as they grow, and when they blossom, but can easily say farewell when they die.

The plant provided some color in my life, and offers a nice memory. I can't say the same for people—especially men, especially the anti-boyfriend. I have this sense that, at the end of the day, we're going to grow apart the way that seasons fade into each other, or simply be friends. He's everything I'd ever want in a man… except physically and emotionally unavailable—but isn't that what a relationship is? Christ. He also did a 360 on me, meaning sending flowers and showering me with gifts and then becoming lukewarm. He's the male version of the plant that I buried today.

Anyways, today was one of those god-awful days when I felt like my self-esteem was in the sewer. I had lunch with the new girl who replaced my work nemesis. She seems smart, nice, and pleasant enough, and so far the sixth sense radar hasn't gone off. I like her laugh; it sounds like a lilt, and she's fashionable too. It makes me feel good that she's five years older than me, Asian, and is single too. I feel good any time anyone is single. Go singles!

I went to the writing powwow tonight and felt completely self-conscious and unable to contribute anything. There were a few new students in the class, including a reed-thin nerdy-looking woman who introduced herself with the tidbit that FYI she found out she was pregnant today. Well, good for her. I'm beginning to think that it simply wasn't meant to be that I have a boyfriend or be with anyone. At the end of the day, even the betta fish and that exotic plant are short-lasting and disposal, kind of like the trail of men in the dust.

Reflections

At times like this, I sit in cubicle land and pout and sulk. I'm trying, but, in the adult world, there is no A for effort.

A week back from ski land, and it's back to the funk. Lately the problem is literally pushing things through, getting things done, staying as excited in the middle and end as in the beginning.

In the meantime, I'll come up with ideas that I'm told are clever and brilliant. Yesterday I watched a colleague throw a conniption over the lack of customer service from the health care benefit idiots. Why not launch a website that throws all benefits in one, I said. He looked at me as if I were Einstein. That's a really good idea, he says. I was happy, thrilled, beaming, having that blissful moment when I think everything is going to be great, and then the next morning the spark was gone, even though the idea was fresh in my mind.

It's starting again at work, skidding through deadlines, sliding through doors that are fast closing, barely making it and then getting bitched out by higher-ups who wonder if I am stupid, lazy, rude, selfish, bored—all adjectives that describe my ADD self. It's holding others up, they scream, and I end up apologizing; it's become my mantra.

And I'm panicking too, always wondering, Is what I'm doing enough? Am I good enough? I don't know where I stand, who I am. I thought of what the new psych woman said to me: Make a list of everything you want because right now it's all over the board—the ideas, the writing, the job, the men, the friends, the activities. It's spinning wheels.

As for the male friend, he's pretty much taken a back burner. Maybe it's the ADD self, my anxious self that has scared him away. I don't think I've ever been on time; I'm unclear in my speech, the conversation jumping around like oil hitting a hot pan, and I've had trouble listening even to those whom I interview. It's a one-way road in the mind, and the steering is pretty hazy.

At times like this, I sit in cubicle land and pout and sulk, and wonder if the sparks and color that I'm told make a person unique, lively, fun and beautiful will ever be appreciated and seen. It makes me sad that much of the time, I'm misunderstood as if I'm speaking another language. I'm trying, but, in the adult world, there is no A for effort.

Last night, I had dinner with the older black man who I ran into at the bookstore and his teenage daughter. I didn't want to go because clearly I'm not interested, but I did, to keep my mind away from the man who I like but doesn't like me back. He looked at me in the middle of the meal and asked me why I wasn't married. Why do you ask? I responded. Because you're smart, intelligent, engaging, interesting, nice, classy, well-educated. I'm taking my time, I said. He replied it reminded him of a fellow track runner in college putzing around the track. He'd asked him, why he was going so slow. I'm taking my time, the runner joked.

Beyond the surface, there is my ADD self, the self that has trouble listening, focusing, who forgets things easily, always changing and cancelling appointments, overpromising, not delivering, overally critical of self and others, depressed, but as the father likes to point out, everyone has their hang ups; it just takes time to see them sometimes.

Well, on a happy note, the sky is blue, and spring is supposedly beyond the cold. It's all fine, I like to tell myself, if not simply to make me feel better.