Adult ADHD Blog

Archives: June 2008

Igniting Interest

I'm ready to stop the vicious cycle of dropping things when they're no longer a novelty.

I've kind of lost interest in swimming. It's the damnedest thing. Lately, I've not been psyched about going to the pool or about joining the masters practices. I've tried hard to push myself, only to arrive and swim and whine. The coach gives out directions, and I basically start squawking, "Argh, why do we have to do it in that amount of time?" The thing is we're all adults, and we are there because we choose to be there. No one is forcing us; no one is forcing me.

I continue to arrive on deck to fight the boredom—or what I'm convinced is the attention deficit disorder. When I start to feel cabin fever, I think, "Uh oh, it's the ADD again. I need to stomp it out." The way I do that is by continuing to try to stick with things: the boss, the colleagues, the job, the new boyfriend, who I fear I will lose interest in. The pattern is that when things are no longer a novelty, I drop them. Now, though, I want to stop the vicious cycle and search desperately for a turning point.

But today, I had to give myself a Klondike bar and a pat on the back. I turned down a really tempting job, tons more money, a slick title, because the bad vibes I had about the guy I'd be working for turned out to be right.

I remember someone telling me – maybe at the behavior therapy guinea pig group – that ADDers have a sixth sense when it comes to people. I knew that there was something fishy with this guy even when my friend—the career guru—said she didn't understand why I was panicking. Well now she sees what I see, and I want to sing, "Hahaha, I told you so," like a five year old. Victories are few and far between for me, so I feel like I have to milk it for all it's worth. :)

A Day at the Beach

In conversations, I cling onto every word, so that I won't be caught in my inattentiveness. Sometimes though, what I hear is like Greek.

The new boyfriend is really nice. I met him four months ago on an online dating site, and four dates into the game, on a rainy night, he said he wanted to be exclusive and date just me. We're moving steadily and slowly toward each other.

He's such a nice guy. He holds doors open, he is patient, he waits for me when I'm late. He is a music teacher, who comes from an ordinary all-American family.

On Sunday, we went to the beach. At times when he looks at me and talks, I feel the old anxiety return, the fear that I will not be able to understand what he says. I take the meds so I can stay focused, not only on the job, but on dates, too.

On the subway, on the long ride to the beach, he talked about his music, his students, his teaching, his family, and I clung onto each word and its meaning as he spoke. Sometimes, though, when I am tired, what comes out of his mouth is like Greek. I hope that he will not see through me, that he won't catch me in my inattentiveness. I must focus so much on his words because he can sense my nervousness. He's not sure why I look so confused and pained.

The beach and boardwalk were perfect for a lazy Sunday. I had a million things to do and once again apologized for running late. This is a running theme: "Sorry, I'll be there at 12," "Sorry, the trains are running late." (I joke to my friend, a fellow Catholic, that I feel like I am going to confession every day, or maybe the litany of “I'm sorries” started with becoming a Catholic. Not sure, it's the same chicken and egg question.)

On the beach, we set up camp away from the crowds. The waves were powerful like a washing machine on spin cycle. The boyfriend looked a bit horrified at the thought of taking the plunge. Who knows what is under the waves? I feel so happy and comfortable in the water, weaving through the waves. When I dive under a wave there is silence, and I love the silence. The boyfriend watched from the sand, later telling me that I was brave to venture out on my own. Funny, I don't feel very brave. But in the water, I feel powerful, because it is something I can do as the others watch frightened, mystified, and a bit envious.

On Saturday, Alex, the student I've been working with for three months, had his last class. He can now kick across 20 yards. In the beginning we were on the kiddie side, but in the end, he still stopped breathless and frustrated. "How come it's so easy for you?" he asked me. Well in his 30s, there's so much he can do – successful banker with a wife and daughter – but he struggles to swim a single lap.

"It's an accomplishment, think about the first day..." I said. He nodded; he wanted to believe me but he couldn't. I wanted to tell him that even though I could swim like a mermaid, there were a ton of other things that I couldn't do. But I could relate to the envy. We are all human.

When Will This Stop?

I often fantasize of a workplace where ADD and creativity are rewarded. Then maybe the anxiety and depression wouldn't be a problem.

I wish the ideas would stop. I feel like that kid in dodgeball, who has all of the balls thrown at her at once, and there's no way to fend off the barrage, except to duck. In the end, the ideas are non-existent anyway, because they are, as the father says, simply ideas: illusions, delusions, and not real, because rarely are they executed. How shitty can a person be made to feel? I feel pretty shitty.

Today, as part of the perfect storm, I came up with the idea of a pullout section in the magazine called Dress and Undress the CEO. Heck, it might be good entertainment for the ladies who pick up the magazine. Naked cutouts of men with Ken-doll physiques and cut-out ties, underwear, suspenders, and shoes. If I shared the idea with the editor, she'd think I was insane, or maybe had too much to drink.

I often fantasize about a career where ADD or creativity would be rewarded. Rather, I feel ashamed most of the time, stuffing the ideas away into the dozens of notebooks that are scattered all over the desk at work.

A more immediate problem is the anxiety and depression that comes along with what is already a handicap. Last night, I noticed a new mole under the arm, painful, red, and definitely there after the long 3.5 hour swimming race last weekend. I Googled "sudden mole and skin cancer," freaking myself out. I'm so good at that.

I've been tempted to jack up the Adderall dosage because at times I feel like the medication isn’t working. I have heart and passion and am well intentioned—but I end up angry and impulsive, and put up all of these guards so that people won't see the ADD me.

I think I obliterated yet another one of my first-date men yesterday. He looked at me funny after I'd simply said, "I couldn't even recognize you. You look nothing like you do in your photos," when I first met him. He didn't seem to have a sense of humor and took offense at that. We sat in silence for 30 minutes and then he asked me if I had any questions for him. No, what was this, a job interview? He said I was like the seventh woman he'd met from online dating. I sat there thinking that at least I'd gotten a $15 glass of wine out of this. I knew I'd never hear from him again. Jerk alert.

The only thing that made me feel awesome the other day was that I had a nice chat with the replacement roommate, whose hobby I discovered is carving cakes. I was totally intrigued that she makes cakes shaped like boots, handbags, and animals. It made me realize that I wasn't the only creative soul trapped in a suit and briefcase.

Summer Unraveling

Things are exploding at work. I can see the landscape — the big ideas — but with the ADD, I miss the details of that landscape.

The ADD in me emerges like the heat from the sidewalks. I feel like things have been slowly unraveling over the past two months. Over the weekend, it finally exploded.

A day earlier, the swim admin guy in charge of private lessons emailed me to say that I was confusing things by working with the clients directly and by trying to book them. It was a short and curt email, and I immediately went up in smoke. I kept thinking, here I was, trying to do the right thing by catering to the clients, because the booking people weren’t getting back to them, and now I get slammed.

I typed out a reply explaining the situation, explaining that the clients felt like their calls weren't being answered, so what was I to do? I sent off the email and CC’ed the swim principal, who answered with a long email, listing all of the reasons why he refuses to book me for private lessons in the summer. I am perennially late; clients complain; and they can't keep on making excuses to clients and covering my ass when I'm not there. I felt like I'd been slapped, a bit shocked. But then again, why should I be? In many ways, they are right.

I'd been overloaded and overwhelmed—and to be completely truthful, I've lost interest in it. Maybe it was impatience, or a fear of getting too close to a place and its people, but about four months ago, I lost the chutzpah to teach, and, to be honest, the joy of even swimming ebbs and flows.

When I was younger, I would argue with the bosses and powers that be. How dare they accuse me of being late, of being careless, of being unfocused, of not caring; they were out to get me. And now I found myself wondering if I should be the one apologizing. I had sent that email impulsively, too. Another trait of ADD.

And at work? Things are unraveling, too, in that I feel like I've become a bit careless. I can see the landscape, the big ideas, but I miss the details of that landscape and so often I end up apologizing for simply being me.

I talked with the father tonight who tsk-tsk'ed me when I said it wasn't a lack of heart or trying, but rather that I had no means to organize time and things. I have six calendars, a dozen notebooks, I have my cell phone set to alarms that ring with events like "getting hair cut," "going to dentist." But still the day feels harried, and I feel like I am living life doing things by the seat of my pants. I want to be on time, I want to be less stressed; I want to be in control. I want to be normal.

“You just need to grow up," the father said. "You can't just say that you have this issue. You need to do something about it." It seemed like another slap in the face. When will they ever be sympathetic or empathetic? Maybe never, because the ADD is invisible.

"I'm spending a lot of money on medication and all of these therapists," I said, somewhat coldly. I want the sympathy, I want to be pitied. I want them to take me seriously. I want to tell people I have ADD and need help sometimes. If I had one leg and was blind, they would certainly help, rather than call me lazy and undisciplined.

Bottom line is it was a terrible day. Everything was wrong, and I had to simply swallow the reality that I may lose the swimming job I'd worked so hard to earn at the start. It seems somewhat tragic, but, in the end, it was my doing. It is the typical ending to most of my gigs.

All Apologies

Sorry, sorry, sorry. I can't help it, but sometimes, it's not the ADD.

The sister asked me, in a very sympathetic voice, yesterday why I needed relationships to be so clear-cut. She's sick of hearing about the man crises, about the swimming addict who hasn't made a single move in almost a year, about Mr. Big who, after wooing me with words, flowers, and a very expensive watch, ditched me. Bastard alert, indeed. Her advice: "Let things be. Don't do anything."

“Why do you need to know if a man is a “friend” or a “boyfriend”? “If a get-together with a guy is just that or a date?" She asked in that voice that one would use to talk to a child.

“No, it's not the ADD," I replied, teeth clenched. I wanted to lash out. I feel like I am the only one with the right to blame or make fun of the ADD, a bit like a fat person making fun of themselves if they are fat. If they do it, it's funny and OK. If I do it, I am mean.

I don't want to be pitied or admonished like a 5-year-old. It is human to wonder why a man goes out with you for nearly a year, pays for everything, goes to movies with you, but makes no moves. I am convinced that I am just a normal, single 32-year-old woman who wonders and panics when Prince Charming will arrive—and if perhaps the romantic and creative part of me is preventing me from truly understanding what relationships are about.

Over the weekend, I survived the nearly five-mile swim under the Chesapeake Bay. It became very clear to me how different the swim buddy (very type-A) and I are from each other. He used to eat the food groups on his plate in order, whereas I am a grazing queen. He's always on time, and I am always calling, texting, and ultimately apologizing about running late. His life is run with military strictness, whereas I tend to be more spontaneous. Ideas sprout up like weeds after a hard rain. Sorry, sorry, sorry, I kept saying, I can't help it. After a while, apologies lose their meanings.

I'd read somewhere that ADDers always need to eat and snack, and, without food, I feel my mood turning south. After the endless swim (I found myself in the water for nearly four hours), I was famished for a hamburger, pizza, a nice seafood meal. The swim buddy — all logic and practicality — says, "OK, if we see something on the road."

I almost threw a temper tantrum as I repeatedly said, "I really need to eat." We made numerous pit stops so I could pee and grab a soda or chocolate. After awhile, my mood lifted and I could see him exhale. He told me maybe I should get a routine physical exam, maybe I am hypoglycemic. Or maybe it's something else, I wanted to hint. Why is it that I could admit to hypoglycemia (which I doubt I have) without shame, but ADD would be another story?

I feel sorry for the men who have come to know me as I am. I can be moody, unpredictable, childish, but also full of color, wit, amusement, and ideas, and, in the end, kind-hearted. I also have a good sense of people much like some people can smell a storm from the distance.

For the rest of the ride, the type-A swim buddy drove in silence. Maybe it was the heat wave, the fact that we'd swum three hours straight, or maybe I’d driven him up a wall and he didn't want to have anything to do with me anymore. I couldn't help it. Sorry, I said.

The ADD's Not Too Sexy

I'm struggling with a disorder that gets no sympathy and just doesn't seem very sexy.

The sister has been suffering from a lot of pain lately. She's been taking a cocktail of drugs since I can remember to ward off rejection from her two replacement kidneys. The meds have messed up her bones so that, at the very tender age of 25, she might need hip replacement surgery. The pain has been getting worse, and I can't do a single thing about it much in the same way I can't beat the ADD. I find it interesting that we both suffer from disorders; only hers gets more sympathy.

With the coming summer, I've been thinking a lot about the upcoming birthday, too. Come December, it is the big "33." I'd always thought that at 33, I'd have two children, a cat, and a hunk of a husband.

Rather, I continue to try to find a way to turn lemons into lemonade, and to find a job and a man who will appreciate what I can bring to the table. I have yet to tell anyone about the ADD. Somehow it just doesn't seem very sexy.

A Million Thoughts

In the course of a work day, my thoughts vary from how to be a fashion designer to making a soufflé. Will I ever find a place of peace?

Last night, I went to a dinner with a top-ranking editor at a big celeb rag. There were at least a dozen other journos, and we were all pining for the woman's attention.

She's in her late 30s, has two cute kids, a really nice husband, and makes at least a million a year. What more could a woman ask for? I wondered if she had any hidden skeletons, because, from the looks of her Prada bag and her Marc Jacobs outfit, it certainly didn't seem that way.

As I listened to the celebrity editor speak, I wondered if I would ever find a place of peace. Even at work, a million ideas and thoughts shoot through my mind. In the course of one work day, the thoughts included: how to be a fashion designer, going to Paris, learning to make a soufflé, learning to podcast, buying a Banana Republic dress. I am always tempted to acquire more things—as if what is on the plate isn't enough.

The father repeatedly says, Remember the rule of three, and sometimes I get so angry when he says that. It seems so logical… but I can't do it.

I feel naked at times, wondering if strangers can see the fear, anxiety, and the shame that comes with ADD. Today the boss looked disappointed and a bit hurt that I forgot to tell her that I wasn't going to get something in on time. It wasn't intentional; I forgot. I am lucky in that the boss and certain friends are forgiving. (Others aren't. Rather than tell me that they are sick and tired of my tardiness and selfishness, they no longer call or email.)

I've been taking 15 mg of Adderall, a 5 mg increase from what it was last month. I haven't noticed much of a difference except that, at times, I can get very testy and blue. Even swimming in the lane, I will curse the slower swimmers in front of me. Move, move, I think.

And sometimes at the supermarket, I will feel so much in a rush that rivers of sweat will pour down my back. A cashier the other day asked me if I was okay, because, well, it just didn't seem that way.

Beach Days

Given the number of drinks I've knocked over on dates, I'd say adults with ADD are dumb when it comes to coordination.

The replacement roommate arrived for the summer, a cool-looking red head, whose arrival reminds me that I am here for another season. So far we've been off to a good start, because, being a lawyer-in-training, she's almost as neurotic as I am—and she too is on a job hunt.

Yes, the hunt. Starting last week, I felt cabin fever again at work. Bored again and surfing the wanted ads for the next big adventure. The sister asked me today if it was the ADD talking. Maybe… but I'm losing track of what is the ADD and what is me. Besides, when I try to separate the two, it’s like untangling a ball of crossed wires. I go completely insane. It’s like separating the colors from the darks in that ever-growing dirty laundry basket.

The first reaction when the sister asked that was anger, though. How is she going to play shrink and ask me if it was my ADD, as opposed to I've been doing the same thing for almost two years and need another challenge? After she asked that, I got kind of abrasive, and uh-huh’ed her for the rest of the conversation. I ended the chat and said it was getting late; we should get our sleep, and have a good week.

I've been dating a new man. A music teacher, a rock musician in the making, who looks like Elvis, James Dean, and the ex-guy friend who will every-so-often shoot me a one-word email. (All he's given me are scraps. Bastard.) As for the new guy, I met him on one of the litany of dating sites that I've joined impulsively and am now trying to un-join (Is that a word?). Although we're on our sixth date and he made it clear that he really wants to see me and likes me, I've still held on to the old and poisonous habit of seeing a couple of guys on the side.

On Friday, it was funny because I was scheduled to have drinks with one guy. In my memory, I'd emailed the name of the bar correctly, but I missed a letter so it ended up, in truth, being another hotel. The poor guy was waiting in the correct hotel, when, in fact, I was in the wrong one. To make a long story short, he took a cab all the way from uptown to meet me and apologized profusely. The next day, he emails that, Oh just FYI, he had the name right, it was I who had assumed it was another hotel. There was a time when I'd beat myself up, but I just laughed and said, "Oh well, sorry, brain freeze." I won't hear from him again.

On other fronts, I've been accepted into yet another guinea pig-styled study, this time about whether adults with ADD are dumb when it comes to coordination. I know the answer is a definite yes given the number of drinks and glasses of red wine I've knocked over on dates, and the fact that somehow a bit of butter or tartar sauce always ends up on my hair. In order to get into the study I had to meet briefly with a shrink, who had to green light my participation.

"Why are you here?" he asked me.

"Because I supposedly have ADD," I said, somewhat defensively.

He looked at me, eyebrows raised, and asked, "What do you mean, do you not think you have it?"

I grinned like a Cheshire cat. "No, if the doctors say it's true, it must be true," I said, somewhat sarcastically.

He was probably thinking, another difficult, crazy ADDer. On that note, the assistant who led me on these various meetings said that I was one of the few guinea pigs who actually had a full-time job. This was highly discouraging and made me wonder if I should start a temp agency, to place ADDers in ADD-friendly workplaces. Another idea to add to the list of a thousand and one.