Adult ADHD Blog

Archives: August 2008

The IQ Idiot

I went to an Ivy League school, but don't "get" Sudoku. Where does that put me on the spectrum of intelligence?

I’ve been fascinated lately with the definition of intelligence. Most certainly, I take a look at my Ph.D. swim friend, who seemed like a blushing, bumbling boy when I attempted to put the moves on him. A girlfriend says that men as such have big brains, but are “socially retarded.”

The other day we went to a big drinks event and met yet another Ph.D., who acted like a child as we nursed our beers and chatted. “I’m hungry,” he whined, like a 5-year-old. He repeated himself and pouted until we sat down. And then he wolfed down the ribs and licked his fingers, and didn’t offer a morsel of conversation. When he was satisfied he sat in silence. (And here’s someone with degree overload.)

This is a bit of a tangent, or tease, to the real crux of this blog entry....

Almost two months ago, I signed up to be a guinea pig for a bunch of scientists at a medical center. I had canceled at least a dozen times because my sense of time completely sucks. But unconsciously, I’ve been avoiding it.

The fact that I’ve been accepted as a guinea pig means that there really is something, well, wrong or different about me. And the research doctor’s assistant was patient enough to deal with the litany of cancellations because, well, I must really be quite an interesting specimen.

But I basked in the specimen spotlight because, for a rare moment in my life, I was actually much wanted like a celebrity. I am that oddball—the ADD chick who went to an Ivy League school, but who can’t figure out the tip on the bill.

Well, I finally made it for the IQ part of the test this week. I laugh as I write this, because I’ve never taken an IQ test in my entire life, and the cynic in me never subscribed to what I consider bullshit.

Flashback to IQ tests: I sit at a child’s play table across the test-giver, a young woman who looks as fashionable and put together as me. The IQ test is 3D, coming in the form of flash cards, blocks, puzzles, and a flipbook that faces the test-giver. I won’t ever know what is really going on, but it makes me antsy not knowing what is in that book and what the answers are.

I roll my eyes when asked some questions that seem so basic. “What is 5 plus 3?” Eight. “Repeat these numbers after me in parrot-like fashion: 1,2,5,6." I speed-read back. Yay. One point for me.

“What is summer?” A season. “What is the similarity between a table and a chair?” Furniture. There’s a part of me who overthinks the questions. Summer could be a name, right?

The tests are humiliating at times, and I feel like a swimmer who is off the starting block and forgets how to stroke. I am given numbers and told to say them backward. I am given flashcards with action-like sequences: Man goes to Laundromat, man takes out dirty laundry, etc.

But I find myself struggling to do even these, because in my imagination, there are several scenarios. A man and a dog are at a storefront; a man is jumping over the fence to escape the barking dog. Could it be that the dog turned on its owner, or maybe that is the way that the man adopted the dog in the first place. An orphaned dog chases after him and they become a pair?

The part that is most laughable is I am given these blocks with different-colored sides on them, and told to make them into the pattern on the flashcard. I feel like I am being told to read a book in Swahili. Are you kidding me? I think. But I know I need to put in an effort so, as the stopwatch goes, I take the task of putting together a pattern slowly.

In the end it takes me about eight or 10 minutes to complete what I believe is a complex pattern. I feel secretly proud. A gold medal for the ADD me. No wonder I could never play mahjong and once flung a Sudoku puzzle book to the side when I couldn’t “get” any of it.

But I find myself telling the test-giver, “I don’t have an answer,” when she throws math-related questions at me. If Tommy bought a pack of gum for 60 cents, how much is each gum if there are five sticks, and what if the gum were 20% off?

I look like a deer caught in headlights. Hey, what are calculators for? I see the IQ score dropping as I am asked the difference between Fahrenheit and Celsius. How did I ever get through school and get into two stellar universities? At the end of the IQ session, I can only laugh and think, “Hey it’s OK, there are certain things you are good at.”

I am of the belief that intelligence is a rainbow-like spectrum. There is Phelps, king of the pool—but clueless, maybe, in the classroom. There is the new boyfriend, a music teacher who is solid at piano-playing, but roams around like a blind ferret when I give him directions to where I live.

As for my own “idiocy,” I’m not sure if it is impatience, lack of willpower, one’s genetic roots, all the candy I ate as a kid, or maybe simply being numbers-phobic. If anything though, I left that windowless playroom feeling liberated. I could look at myself, at all of my triumphs and tribulations, at all of the beauty marks and warts, and laugh. Well I’m just not good with numbers. It is okay to use the EZ-tip calculator on the cell phone.

The head of the study, a pretty Ph.D., said that the results should arrive in several weeks. I had come in the name of science, in the hope that people like me be could be better understood, but in the end, a score (a number in itself) doesn’t matter. I’m genius enough to know that I’m anything but an idiot.

Guinea Pig Central

There are ADD adults who know exactly where they fit in, but not me.

I am all prepared to be a guinea pig again. After canceling the medical research group session a dozen times, I am set to head over to the hospital to do a battery of IQ tests to contribute to yet another ADD study. The focus of the study is adults with ADD and physical movement.

Are ADD adults idiots when it comes to reflexes and movement? Apparently not, since Michael Phelps has ADD and cuts through the water like a knife to butter.

I get $100 for the entire study, but just scheduling it has proven very ADD. I've canceled a dozen times simply because I can't get my head around managing things. Time is a very loose concept for me.

I've been thinking a lot about spatial movement lately though. For example, when I walk into the crowded subway cars in the morning I never seem to know where to go. To the front or back or the subway car? Who knows. I'm always bumping into people, walking into them, forever saying "Oh sorry."

After a while it's exhausting. I am sure there are people who know exactly where they fit in when they see a crowded subway car or a packed airport terminal, but not me. I am like a blind mouse trying to cram itself into the right spot.

On other issues, I've met a new guy who I'm actually interested in. He's tall and lanky, a bit preppy, has a southern accent and is a real gentleman. When he holds my hand I feel safe and when he hugs me, I feel even better.

My friend Lisa is somewhat amazed at how many guys I've dated recently—25 and counting. I tell her it's to get over the pseudo-boyfriend who broke my heart, but she thinks it's my ADD. I need someone who keeps the kettle boiling; I can't stand boredom. That is why I am forever seeking the next new challenge and adventure. When put in those terms, it doesn't sound so bad.

The End of Summer

As an adult ADDer, I can see signs of the disorder in others. I should be horrified, but instead, find it depressing.

I'm not sure what is happening, only that in the past couple of weeks, I've fallen into a funk. It's like I can't be alone and spend time on my own. I always need to be text messaging, dialing, scrambling and searching for the next best thing.

The 35-year-old Ph.D. man emailed me from England and said he didn't do the swim. The conditions were too rough and unholy, and he'd rather wait a year than waste a couple thousand dollars and his ego. I understand, and yet I thought back to how he treated me before he left. Sorry, I don't see us being more than friends, I'll maybe contact you two months from now. Some friend. And yet I am thrilled by men and people who are complete asses. Is it the ADD or me? The question hangs over my head.

The sun is coming down earlier now and mornings are darker. I feel fall in the air. Yesterday the mother and half-sister and I had a reunion at a Manhattan diner. I never gave much thought to it until now, but I'm starting to wonder if the mother has ADD, too. She's changing plans and destinations last minute, and doesn't seem to listen to what I say. I tell her my phone number and address and even write it down several times, but she asks me for it each time.

Like me she's old fashioned, a technophobe, who still sticks with Post-its, notebooks and disposable cameras. It's just easier to figure out. She likes to snack, too, and is never without a pack of gum or hard candy. She tends to ask the same questions over and over, too. She's always planning for things all the way out into December or beyond, trips, vacations, ideas, dreams, and doesn't seem to focus on the now. In her, I see me. I should be horrified—but rather I am subdued and humbled and somewhat depressed by it all. I've been so blue and down with the meds that I decided I'd give it a rest today. Today, I will just be myself. I will be creative, loopy, wild and be proud. To hell with the conventional.

The female shrink asked me the other day, “How do you connect all of the dots in the square without picking up your pen?” I shrugged.

"Yes, you can do it if you go outside of the square. Who said that everything had to be a square?" True, I thought. If only the rest of the world appreciated it.

Moping

I want to tell everyone I have a disorder that gives me spark, color and ideas.

The new and more powerful Adderall pills do work. Today I went to work, opened the drawer, took out the orange capsule, and swallowed. For the next four hours, I sat at the desk, completely focused on the project at hand, so focused that I didn't get up to pee, to eat, to talk to anyone. It was as if I had been thrust into a tunnel.

I don't like the feeling, because rather than feel like myself, I am nervous, anxious, and have the feeling that I am being chased by someone, by deadline, by time, by myself. I just want to be happy with myself, but in the end I find myself apologetic and walking around with tremendous guilt.

I am a nice person but I can't deal with stress and can't deal with the pressure of daily life and deadlines. I wish sometimes that I could find a good friend, a boyfriend, who could relate to me or vice versa. It gets lonely living like this.

I've been fixated on the Olympics, watching Michael Phelps snag medal after medal. He has ADHD, that is a well-known fact, but he's a genius in the pool. I'm told that September is officially ADD month, and I wish for the life of me that I could go out and tell people that I have this albatross, this disorder, that also gives me spark, color and ideas.

Michael Phelps is an exception because he's as fast as a fish, but for the rest of we ADDers, success often is simply getting through another day having checked off something on the to-do list.

Does the Boyfriend Have ADD, Too?

I overloaded and need to escape—but at least there's one place that still brings me silence and serenity.

I hate this city. The past month, I've walked down the crowded sticky streets of Gotham wanting to explode. I stick the urban pacifier, aka the iPod, into my ears to drown out the grating noises of sirens, the subway trains screeching, and I dream of escape. If anything, that is what I love about the water, about swimming. When I swim in the open water and the pool, I submerge into silence and serenity.

I wonder if the growing stress comes from ADD (since I've read that ADDers are allergic to noise), or if I just need a real vacation. I need quiet time, down time, me time.

Yesterday, I almost overwired because I'd once again packed the day too tightly. At dawn, I awoke to swim several miles at the beach. The "boyfriend" came along to support me, even though I know he hates the water and is lukewarm about swimming.

We agreed to meet at 7:20 a.m.; he was on time, but I found myself running late again, making a pit stop at a deli, a fruit market, the 7-Eleven, being sucked in by the headlines of the gossipy tabloids. I had to text him and make excuses again. "Sorry, the subway is running behind..." It's bullshit. I have a time problem, a deadline problem. He's so patient, but I keep thinking he's going to say "enough!" like all the others.

However, the water proves that there are things I can do that the boyfriend can't. He shied away when the open-water swimmers and I told him that we were going to swim 5K in the ocean. He said he'd watch the bags. My smile was genuine for the first time. I was going to swim these 3 miles straight even if it killed me, and when I emerged, tired and exhausted, I would bask in the compliments that I so rarely get in my day-to-day life.

Indeed, two hours later, after stroking through tides, currents, and jellyfish, the boyfriend said, "Wow, that's pretty amazing. I could never do something like that."

So when people ask me what I love about the water, it is more than the fitness. It is the confidence—and maybe it is also a middle finger to the non-ADD population that I can excel in something that they can't.

After the swim, I went window-shopping, tried on a litany of dresses at big-box stores, then rushed off to the swim school to teach, and then dashed off to the train to meet the boyfriend again and go to a concert he was playing.

I've discovered that the boyfriend is disorganized, too, and it bothers me a lot. I am so keen on someone who is my arch opposite—disciplined, organized, someone to whip me into shape. (The stepmother points out that a drill sergeant isn't necessarily a boyfriend or husband, but maybe she doesn't understand.) I cannot live with, much less marry, someone as loopy and disorganized as myself. We would be a mess. I would hate what I would regard as his sloppiness, his inaccuracy, his lack of focus, because, in the end, I hate myself for all of those things.

Church

Here, I can be free, and pray for a day when the ADD confusion lets up.

I go to the church around lunch every day, enjoying the walk up Park Avenue, loving and savoring the silence of the chapel. Once I kneel and look up at the altar, I can finally let go and cry. I can let the tears flow amongst these strangers, who are locked or lost in their own personal sorrow.

Damn, what's wrong with me? The anger has returned, the anger against men. Maybe Buddhaman is right; if I leave him for a female shrink, I will forever be angry at the entire Y chromosome population.

Today I locked myself in prayer hoping that there would come a day when all of the dust clears and the confusion lets up. When will that happen? Maybe never.

Maybe I should go to an ADD national conference, and meet some dashing and handsome fellow ADDer who is just as seemingly all over the board as me. Maybe we can live among a pile of unpaid bills and unwashed dishes, and befriend other space cadets, such as ourselves.

A funny scenario I play again and again in my mind is as follows: I lose my child at Target, because I forgot I brought him or her out in the first place. The prospect of living like that got me crying again.

The new boyfriend is a bitch, meaning he's proactive and then not very proactive, and yet he's walking around telling people he's my boyfriend. I met him on an online dating service amidst my serial dating period three months ago. So far he hasn't tried to take me to bed. His kissing is so light and feathery that I want to swat him away because it's as annoying as a mosquito’s buzz.

He seems a bit ADD himself, taking on too many gigs, wandering around confused when I tell him what the address is. He sucks at math; he can swim, but likes it about as much as a cat likes water. Personally, I've heard his band play twice, and even bought the CD, and I think, well, they suck. I think everything sucks now. I'm just mad and it doesn't seem like the Adderall (the 20mg) is helping at all.

The Bitch of Living

I am perennially late, falling far short of the "be there or be square" mantra.

I go into work every day entering the perfect storm. I sometimes imagine that I have a handful of keys and I'm sticking each one frantically into the ignition, but I can't find the right one and the wrong one gets stuck, and I can't even pull it out. I feel like screaming.

I can't even get the day started. I am perennially late for everything. This morning I tried so hard to make it to the 5:30 a.m. swim workout. I arrived for the cool down at 6:30. I was too embarrassed to even show my face in the lane. It's almost laughable.

In my mind, I see both the ex-boyfriend and the 35-year-old type A swimmer friend wagging their fingers at me, "Why are you always late? You're always late." I am still convinced that I lost the possibility of the 35-year-old as a lover because he realized that I could not even achieve his "be there or be square" mantra.

On the love front, I have a new boyfriend, a young man as plain as vanilla who I met on an Internet dating site in March. He's totally laid back, or at least seems that way, chilled, laughs and smiles a lot. There is a child-like quality about him. His handwriting is big, block-like, easy to read. He's nice to me, mostly agreeing to follow me wherever I want to go. But he's too easy, too simple, too boring, too stupid.

I guess I'm used to being ordered around, threatened. I am used to, and even long for, ultimatums. I need the boss, the father, the friend, the lover to light a fire under me; otherwise, nothing gets done. It's frankly depressing.

More Meds!!

It sounds funny, but I think I'd rather be missing a finger or a toe than have this chronic disorder. With the new dosage, I see new hope.

I've officially canned the Buddhaman. After he diagnosed me with borderline personality—telling me I was controlling and impossible, and that he was happy he wasn't my father—I called up the secretary and said, “Switch me to Dr. X." I will call her that because I refuse to talk with any shrink with a Y chromosome. I am so over men, for now.

In retrospect, I'm not sure what to think, except that he's been crazy when it comes to doling out guy advice. He told me to "jump" the 35-year-old doctor, and to say, "Hey, so what if you're a virgin? Let's experiment." He also told me that by leaving him for a female shrink, I was running away from all of the men in my life. A blanket statement.

But before I left, I told him I wanted more ADD meds. I said go ahead and up the dosage for Adderall, because I've had it. I sit at work, surf the net, nosh on the stash of chocolates and snacks in my drawer. I email, I pick up a random magazine and read it, a thousand ideas spinning through my mind. One moment, I want to learn French, then jewelry making, then I want to become a lawyer.

...And I will be 33 this year. 32 completely sucks, and whoever told me it would all come together at 32 is a liar. It sounds funny, but sometimes I think I'd rather be missing a finger or a toe than have this chronic disorder. With the new prescription, I see new hope.

Okay, the Adderall report: The new pills are orange and I started them yesterday. I felt the familiar buzz and zombie-like state that I first had when I started Adderall eight months ago. But I also felt like I could sit in one place and focus a lot better, even though I was exhausted for much of the day (or maybe depressed?). My fear is that I'll have to keep upping the dosage and eventually become addicted. And what if I get fired?

Always, in the back of my mind, there is that fear, which may become reality if I continue to fixate on it. A few days ago, a colleague told me that most of the people here had gotten pay increases recently. I haven't gotten a raise or promotion in nearly two years. My fault, I know. I grow bored, I am unfocused, I do other things, and once again there is that cycle of feeling inferior and worthless. I wish I could be more positive, but in a perfect world, ADD would somehow be celebrated.

Telling off My Therapist

Suddenly, I've been diagnosed with borderline personality? "It's a disorder when it eats into your life," was the response.

I told off the Indian Buddhaman today, who respects me as much as a dog respects the fire hydrant.

He's always late, he spends a ton of time interrogating me, and then he's always answering the phone during our sessions or checking his CrackBerry. I was finally like fuck this. It's been a year and I don't need to shell out a co-pay and feel like shit, and, at the same time, get nowhere.

“Did you cancel the last session?” I don't recall.

“How are things going?” The meds were working 20 to 30 percent.

Silence.

Do you think we should up the amount? I asked. I wondered if he could sense how desperately I wanted things to change.

He turned to his manila file, and said, "That's what I said in the beginning, but I thought you didn't like meds." I felt like a witness on the stand being grilled by a lawyer. Did it matter? So what if I changed my mind? I asked him. I was here to get better; I was here because I was tired of status quo.

I did not trust the guy. I did not trust him at all. It wasn't the news he was delivering, but rather the way he was doing it. He was being harsh and abrasive. He scrawled down the new heightened dosage, and there was an angry silence. We were like two boxers in the ring that retreated for the interim.

I told him that maybe I was just in a period of my life where I wanted a female psych, maybe I needed to retire the "Y" chromosome for the meanwhile. The Buddhaman emerged from the silence again with a pen and Post-it in hand. He said he wanted me to read something, a book about borderline personality, which he suddenly diagnosed me with. A volcano erupted. After all, I thought that he had tested me for this when we first met and had ruled it out.

He said that this was a serious problem, That's why I was having all of these troubles with coworkers, the boss, with my scheduling, with men. I was a classic borderline. I stopped him there. I was angry, I said, at the way we were communicating. At the way he was shooting me down every time I asked a question. I was fuming and angry because I didn't feel heard.

I swallowed my anger for a split second. At what point does a human being feel like they have the right to tell someone else that they have a personality disorder? I asked him coldly.

”I’ve worked and dealt with people and their quirks. Some are loners, some are asexual, some had dinner the same time every day, should we trace back the roots of their ‘disorder’ and then medicate them? Why make everyone the same? It's a disorder when it eats into your life and affects your relationship with others," he said, matter of fact.

He said I was controlling, angry at men, that I was black and white. He was right. But I was aware of it—and what of all the milestones I'd achieved along the way? Two years ago, it was unthinkable that I would date, unthinkable that I'd try to work things out with those who I didn't see eye to eye with. I had a long way to go in terms of toning down outbursts and acting like a 32-year-old, rather than a three-year-old, but he was turning the messiness and elusiveness of life into medical terms and trying to medicate everything. He was not God, so why was I here?

I repeated that maybe I needed a lady shrink. He said I'd be running away from reality. He represented my father, my exes, all the men I was dating. I told him about the 35-year-old who had written me off as a "friend." (I didn’t tell him though about the temper tantrum I had on the drive back from Chesapeake.) The Buddhaman said, “Who cares, he was a virgin, socially retarded; work and swimming are his life, but there's more to life.”

I agree, I agree, I said, and then the air seemed to clear. The tones of our voices normalized.

I said to the Buddhaman that it was ever so clear lately that I need to eliminate things in my life, rather than add to it. This included men, writing, swimming, and rather than accept things, I needed to talk them out with people.

He showed me an essay from another patient of his who diagnosed herself with borderline personality. "See, she's impulsive, takes everything personally..." he started. "Cutting, alcohol, sex..."

I did none of the above, I joked.

"Yes, but you're in denial," he said. Maybe I am in denial, but I can't stand people who reduce things in life—feelings, relationships, emotions—to formulas and who label everything.

At the end, we did not reach a truce. He said to me once again that I couldn't run away from the men in my life. He represented my father... he started.

"But you're not," I said.

"Thank goodness for that," he said, that evil twinkle in his eye.