Adult ADHD Blog

Archives: October 2008

ADD People Like Me

I've traded the ADHD medication and therapist for a 3-month workshop with fellow adult ADDers like me.

I have arrived at an awakening.

It has been six days since I've been off the med, the 20 mg. of Adderall. I still take a half a pill of the Lex, for the sake of simply saying I am doing something. The difference is that I feel calmer, even if I'm more disorganized.

Today, as I wrote and pecked away, I found myself mismatching first and last names, and sent the wrong text message to someone. Good thing I said nothing bad.

I've replaced the meds and the therapist (who really isn't helping me since chatting with her has the same effect as talking with my girlfriends). We have a guy-bitching session and she usually agrees with everything I say. Bad deal. I am paying $35 a session to have someone agree with me and nod—but I am not getting better.

I sometimes joke that I might as well go to a priest, because they, too, would provide sympathy or empathy. The only difference is they would tell me to say the Hail Mary ten times. No problem.

For the past four days, I took the rest and respite getaway to the island. Water usually has a calming effect on me, a natural happy pill, if such things exist. I went last year, same island, same getaway, the same azure color in the ocean, same pink-colored sand—only this year, things seemed quieter, like the calm after a storm. The unhappiness didn't entirely lift but there were moments when I sat by the water, and I felt like I were in another world.

The sister came along, too, working hard on her tan. She said that at the ripe old age of 26, she's discovered that life sucks. All of the signs of suckiness are there, the reality check that, in the real world, there is politics. People use others, friends are net-workers, most of the time you get one chance to make things right; and fat and ugly and forgetful people usually get the short end of the stick, unless they are related to some trust fund family.

When I returned, I decided that I had done the right thing. I decided to replace the meds and the lackluster therapist with a 3-month weekly workshop, a group of fellow adult ADDers like me. I decided that I would pay the grand and make that investment in myself.

There are seven of us and a psychiatrist facilitator, a woman with a wide smile and a high tolerance for humor. I like the way she welcomes laughter. I like the way I can share my experiences about everything from the challenges of doing mundane tasks like tackling dirty dishes, and struggling to complete projects at work, to walking around feeling stupid when, in fact, I know I am a "bright 30-something year old woman," with a higher than average intelligence for words, that according to the official Mensa-type IQ test I took last month.

It is as if the real world—the non ADD, non anxious, non depressive world—were like the Moon and the minority of us were on Earth. It feels good to be on Earth amongst people like me. I did not want to leave.

I Need a Lifeline

Imagine if I were misdiagnosed. Deep down, I know it's not true—but in dreamland, I don't have ADD.

"Lifeline please..." I had a good laugh watching the Saturday Night Live skit a few nights ago where Tina Fey does Sarah Palin, and Amy Poehler does Katie Couric. I cackled when Palin asked for a "lifeline" when asked a question that she either wanted to dodge or couldn't answer.

Either way, the word spin-cycled in my head today. I need a vacation—a lifeline—some certainty in a clearly uncertain life.

In desperation, I went to see the psychiatrist woman for our monthly session yesterday. I almost canceled.

She's a sea of calm while I am a complete wreck. "How have you been?" she asked. In the real world, I would nod and smile, and say "Fine, oh just fine." But behind closed doors, on this couch, I pay $35 for the right to say, "Shitty, things are horrible."

Things have been horrible. In all truth, yesterday at the weekly meeting, the boss chewed me out and asked why in the world had I not handed in the assignment yet, especially since we'd already talked about my needing to meet deadlines.

She asked me – in the way one would ask someone with a very low IQ – where the assignment was, given that I had said I nearly completed it the other day.

“Isn't it common sense to complete a task that is nearly done?” she asked. Yes, yes, I want to tell her, but I don’t. In the real world it makes sense—but in my mind it doesn't.

Then there was the sense of doom and gloom that has transformed me into a sour puss. I go into work and mope. I cannot, just cannot, bring myself to read, work, complete tasks. I feel like I have no motivation.

The psychiatrist woman stopped me as I rambled. "I could be reading you wrong, but you sound more irritable today, as if you were irritated at me," she said.

"That's what I mean," I said, close to tears. I am much more irritable, and I am not sure if it is the Adderall gone awry.

Somewhere in this whirlwind conversation, she said something that stopped me in my tracks. “Adderall is a stimulant, and stimulants should work on people with ADD.” When I didn't take them, did I feel better, happier? Were my moods more in check? She asked. It certainly seemed that way.

She asked who diagnosed my adult ADHD, and I responded, the Buddhaman and the Ph.D. people at the hospital. For a split second, there was a ray of hope, even if, deep down, I know it's not true. Imagine if this were all a mistake, a misdiagnosis. I didn't really have ADD. I had once again drifted into dreamland.

The ADD medication problem has driven me close to tears anyway. And there isn't a single thing I can do about it. Every month I spend $80, plus another $150 to see the shrink, and take these drugs that make me feel unhappy and sick.

This morning I actually lay in bed long after the 7 a.m. alarm sounded. I wrapped myself tightly in the blanket, badly wanting to fall back asleep and sink into a sweet dream. I just don't want to deal, and yet the psychiatrist woman's questions were an awakening to me. "I understand that you don't like drugs and medication," she said. "But you need to let me know how I can help you."

I told her I was sick and tired of not understanding whether what I had was a chemical imbalance of ADD or a personality issue; I was tired of this trial and error with the meds.

If I had a chemical imbalance, I would be happy to take drugs, and I hoped that one day I could find the root of the problem – the genesis of the mood swings and sadness – and control symptoms without drugs. "Or maybe in the end, nothing will help," I said. "It takes time," she said. "Even with the drugs, you need to give something new at least two weeks." I told her that I appreciated this concrete information. I didn't know that I needed to give a new med two weeks; before I dumped it like a bad boyfriend. My impatience was my demise.

I told her that I wished the Buddhaman had given me more concrete answers to the multitude of unanswered questions in my mind. "I hate to tell you this, but the two-week time frame might be the most concrete thing you will ever get."

"Things related to the mind take a lot of time and patience," she said. "It's like trying to turn a freighter around—you can only do it slowly."

That's It

I fear I'm falling into a depression.

Enough is enough. I fear that I am falling into a depression. First the financial markets, then a string of unreliable men, and I am just tired—physically and mentally spent.

I can understand why the betta male wouldn't want a girl like me. It's too stressful when you are dealing with a basketcase, which is clearly what I've become. I want to do everything and in the end I don't do anything.

Oh, it's not lack of effort at all. I am tempted to run away from it all, kind of in the same fashion I almost did at the pool yesterday. I need a break from a world that is very practical and realistic. I want escape.

A Loss of Time

Seemingly overnight, the world has shifted and changed into something unrecognizable.

In ADD land, time has little meaning. I was thinking about this last night as I sat surfing the web mindlessly and aimlessly, after swimming and downing the usual shake and fries with my pseudo-boyfriend. I've decided that, right now, he's my best bet in the dating hell I live in. While his touch does not really turn me on, he is patient and lets me be me.

The jock-jerk emailed the other day and said he was out at clubs roving for chicks. What I find entirely comical (or hypocritical) about this is that he is a "devout Catholic." I am assuming he means he's a bad ass in real life and cleanses his sins by going into the confessional once a week. "Sorry Father, for I have sinned and slept with a dozen different women while making each believe I was exclusive with her. Let me say the Hail Mary three times."

There is plenty to not celebrate these days, including my Internet-at-night relapse. By the time I shut down at night, it is close to 1 a.m. and the next morning I am scrambling to get the day's ignition started. I once bought a magazine rack and threw everything from keys to shoes to the morning energy bar in there, but somehow I lost interest in that rack and now it’s filled with knickknacks.

The pseudo-boyfriend is kind and forgiving. He seemed close to tears (I've only seen a man cry once and it sent shivers up my spine) when I talked about my absentee mother. I feel that at some point I will feel comfortable enough to tell him about my skeletons. Who knows, maybe my notion of love has been tainted by movies like "Titanic" and "Gone with the Wind."

I am a hopeless romantic, and gaze longingly still at the high-rise where the womanizer of an ex-boyfriend lived. I think about better days—red wine on a snowy slope overlooking a frozen lake with a purple glow on the horizon. I think to a more robust stock market and economy. Somehow, seemingly overnight, the world has shifted and changed into something unrecognizable.

The only time I am happy is in the swimming lane, and enveloped in a chlorine-induced haze. I sometimes wish that life were as set and straightforward as the black line on the bottom of the pool.

I often wish that life—with all its unpredictability and curve balls—were as set as the start and end of a workout. That those we loved would love us back equally, that there was no disease and pain, and that the time line of everyone's life were the same.

Maybe this is a bit of daydreaming at a time when the stock index has shed some 40 percent from a year ago, when wealth on paper has been lost, when a man who seemed so perfect and handsome at the outset left me bitter and oddly brokenhearted.

"You can't do anything about it, so don't worry," a colleague says, and he's right. Sometimes it's best to surrender.

A Disorganized ADD Double Life

I dashed out, full of hope, with hot pink post-its and a stack of folders.

The dream last night was colorful yet hazy. I dreamt that there was a pile of pretty stones, some prettier than others, and that I was in a classroom of sorts where we were asked to pick the one that we wanted.

I hemmed and hawed about whether to choose the prettiest one or the most practical. Could it be a reflection of the indecisiveness about men—and life in general? Or perhaps a sign that I should stay away from seductive, attractive men without a heart.

On a brilliant Sunday, I found myself dashing between two dates with two men. I had set a date with the swimmer guy and, before that, had set a date with the jerk-jock. The swimmer guy and I had a rich conversation post-workout. Time and conversation flowed, and I felt oddly attracted to his oddities. But, I lost track of time and realized, "Uh oh," it was close to 3 p.m., when I was supposed to meet and greet man #2. I called and made up an excuse and said I was sick.

If fact I really do feel sick. Sick of not knowing what I want, of not knowing when to continue trying and when to call it quits… like with this ultra-passive, no-backbone of a pseudo boyfriend I have (yes, there are actually three men and I am juggling them like oranges).

The problem with the phone chat with man #2 was I said I still wanted to see him, and he said he would come over. I replied I needed to take a shower, pick up laundry, can we do it at X time and he said, “Hey, I'm coming over to see you” in a kind of bossy way. He's macho, pushy, and reminds me of a traditional Korean man, despite his choir school boy look. Looks, as I've discovered now, say nothing about a person's core.

I found myself jumping on a ferry and mad dashing in a taxi back to the apartment where I tore off my clothes, leapt into the pajamas, and feigned ill. I feel like I am living a double life, a very disorganized double existence. I am starting to forget who these men are, and who I am. I feel myself slipping and slipping, and feeling like I had too much on the plate and the plate was cracking.

I talked with the shrink the other day and did the whole verbal diarrhea thing. I said I was going crazy and no longer knew what to think about things. I have too many ideas at once, too many calendars, too many agendas, and always the fear that someone will see through my disability, and fire me or dump me.

She gave me a new idea and said I should try manila folders and post-its. I should write all the tasks for the day on post-its, stick it on one side, and then move it to the other when it's accomplished. It sounded fresh and new—and the thrill of newness permeated me. I get so excited with new ideas; it's like a mental orgasm. I dashed out and bought hot pink post-its and a stack of folders.

The shrink smiled and said every time I left her office, I seemed full of hope. In the end all I have is hope.

Apologizing for ADHD Behaviors at Work

I want to do everything right, to be precise, to work as swiftly as the rest of the world—but I can't.

I had Britney Spears dancing in my head this morning, that song, "Oops, I did it again," on the tip of my tongue. I come into work and there is an angry call from a PR woman who is pissed that the date in a story we churned out was wrong. It didn't help that she demanded that I email it to her now, since she hadn't seen it but had heard it was wrong. When the email went on strike, she wanted it faxed ASAP. It didn't help that I apologized and said we'd fix it.

"It doesn't matter, you made a mistake and it's already out there," she hissed. “I want you to write an apology, too.”

The mistake wasn't the spine of the story, but dates and names, like time itself, are black and white. You either have it right or wrong; there's no in between. I had no defense.

At one point I would have fired back, or beaten myself over this and said it could have been different. But this time around, I was defeatist, because it is the second fuck up this week.

I give up. I will never be a very precise person. It got me thinking about what I should do with the rest of my life (which can easily throw me into a funk, but why bother).

As the financial markets tumble and the jobless numbers climb in Sodom and Gomorrah, what can I do about it? A colleague sitting across me shook his head as we watched the Dow down spiral. "At least we have our health," I quipped.

I wonder if the remaining world will ever understand how frustrating it is for an adult with attention deficit to live in a disconnect. I want to do everything right, to be precise, to work as swiftly as the rest of the world—but I can't. I try, and today the ADHD medication didn't even seem to help. All I could do was say, Sorry, I'll fix it.

And not a day goes by when I don’t wonder if this is the straw that breaks the camel's back, and leads into being pink-slipped. I am tired of living in fear and chanting the "I'm sorry" mantra. It gets old.

Making Peace with ADHD

In the end, those with and without attention deficit come with imperfections, so why not accept them — and ourselves?

The morning started with searching for the appointment book again... one of at least a half-dozen appointment books. There is the Google calendar, the Yahoo calendar, the legal pad with the litany of to-do items, resolutions, promises, goals, short term, medium term, long term.

All I want to do is take a match and burn everything. If you can't find it, then burn the pile and start over again! That should be the new motto for ADDers.

Last night at 10:30 — at a time when most normal people get ready for bed — I started to do things like wash dishes, make pasta, answer emails that had been sitting in the in-box (seemingly collecting mold or rot), and rummaging through magazines and reading articles from months ago. I thought about the seemingly angry and argumentative boyfriend, AKA jerk-jock. We all come with warts and faults, so why not overlook them and forgive sometimes? In the end, we are all fallible.

As I write, I've found the appointment book hidden behind a pile of papers and books. I feel like I can exhale again, that the day can finally begin.

The Jerk-Jock

On a date, I am reminded that everyone has issues. I have warts, too.

OK, this is the 12th date, with the really quiet, seemingly nice and normal guy (AKA the jerk-jock) and probably the last one. At first, he looked reserved, pleasant, preppie—a blend between insurance and banker—but it turns out he is totally weird. He's a control freak. When I say I can't talk now, but I can talk later, he just says, "I'll call you tomorrow."

The warts have increasingly been coming out, as bright as the sun at high noon. He packs everything in tin foil, empty containers, saved jars—all three meals. It's very OCD. He even brings milk in a jar for the cereal in the morning. He packs his lunch, his dinner, and he packs it not just for himself, but for me. The first two times, it was cool having surprise picnics, with a few homegrown flowers to add spice to the romance, but by number three and four, I felt like I was having a picnic shoved down my throat. I would never assume someone would want to eat what I packed every time. The other day he said he had a surprise for me. What? I asked. And then I teased him. Is it a homegrown vegetable or fresh milk in the jar? He laughed, not realizing I was being facetious.

And then there's the parking issue. He circles round and round and round and round for what seems like forever to find free parking in the city, and refuses to shelve out any cash for parking even if we're in a rush. Then once he complained about how he'd found a space, but the car had gotten some bird poop on it. My snarky, wicked sense of humor emerged again. "I hear it's going to rain, so you should have slathered some soap on the car, and then you would have gotten a free car wash," I said. He laughed. He loves my evil sense of humor.

I wonder if he has attention deficit, too. He forgets a lot of things at my place—the umbrella, towel, his shoes—but because he's cute and appears well-organized and "banker like," I forgive him, but for what? Then there was the flower fiasco. We were walking one evening, and I spotted a man peddling roses and glanced over, secretly hoping he would buy one for me. He said, "Let's walk over and take a look." I smiled and walked over, and then he grabbed my hand and says, "Very nice, let's go now." I felt like I had been slapped, and found myself shaking my hand, smiling my cat-swallowed-a-canary-grin, and said, "Not very nice."

I wonder why I am so attracted to asses. What is it about the jerk-jock that I am attracted to? Despite his quirks, I am reminded that everyone has issues. I have a lot of warts, too. I am perennially late for all dates. There is real-time, and then there is Jane-time. At times I can be moody, happiness shifting into sadness and anger in a split second, with an unexplainable force setting it off. I can be snarky and enjoy verbal sparring at times. I need the kettle to boil. Is this ADD or is this me? How much of it is a personality flaw versus a chemical imbalance? What do these men love about me? They love the color and the spark. The jerk-jock loves my humor, sharp as a knife; he loves my laughter.

I asked him what he liked about me and he said all those things, "and who doesn't like going out and having a good time?" "I don't," I said, matter of fact. He winked. "That's what I liked about you," he smiled. It felt good to be liked for my quirky goofball self.