« All Blogs

Jane D.

Emotional Striptease: Tales of Me, Myself and ADD

Recent Blog Posts

Survivors

posted: Monday May 12th - 12:16pm

If ADD were a gift, we'd publicize it — and not feel strait jacketed by everything conventional.

It's getting worse. I feel like the betta fish that is sinking to the bottom of the flower vase. Is it depressed? In my case, is it Meds gone awry? Maybe it's like LSD, a good trip gone bad.

Lately, I have been living like a wild child. When I was little, I loved watching Peter Pan and had a penchant for the lost boys, parent-less children who live by assumptions.

Last night, I went on a lukewarm date with a middle-aged Chinese tech guy. He was suffering from a bad case of allergies. His eyes were blood-shot, his nose was running, and he looked like he was crying the whole time. He didn't talk much, another shy guy or social dummy.

When I got back from the blahhh date, I broke two commandments. I turned on the computer, got sucked into surfing, and I headed to the fridge to get a fix of whip creme and cake. It's a good thing I went swimming, but once again I haven't made a real swim workout for two weeks now because I have packed my nights with dates to forget the ex... who thankfully is leaving next week at least for the summer.

I feel like every day is a litany of good intentions and broken promises. Once again the words of a former boss echo in my mind before he pink-slipped me, "You get an A for effort, but it's just not working."

I walk around feeling like I am about to explode. I don't have the patience to stand in line, weave through the crowds in the city. I have increasingly been angry at the morning subway squeeze, tired of the tossed salad of people, baby carriages, bags, and luggage—and thankful (so thankful) that I do not live in India or some overpopulated city where my frustrations would be meaningless.

I told the shrink last week—who, by the way, is passing me to another shrink because she's leaving—that things were better when I didn't know about ADD. My self-confidence was golden, because I could pass on the blame. Lost job: their fault, bad boss. Lost relationship: they're a jerk.

Now, I am left in a gray area wondering always if it's my fault. If ADD were a gift, then we'd publicize it, right? It wouldn't be tagged with disorder. I would be able to live freely without feeling strait jacketed by everything conventional. The struggle is also not visible.

But to everyone else, it's so fixable. The father continues to drill the idea of "daily fun hour" in me, and says, "No more than three things." But there are a million things. Even with food. I'll buy a bag of chips, get bored halfway, stick it in the drawer and discover it weeks later. Stale chips are not appetizing.

At work, I have a mound of "stuff" under the desk. Magazines, clothes, information on events that I wanted to attend but forgot about. I imagine holding a matchbook, lighting the match and setting it on fire. It would get rid of the problem, this albatross around my neck.

I was thinking of coming out of the closet and telling the ex that I am sometimes the way I am because of the Meds, and god knows what else. "Make sure he has a drink or two first," the sister says. Better yet, make sure he doesn't laugh, because then I'd strangle him.

As for Marilyn the betta fish, it has survived the tsunami. The sister calls it the "superfish." "It's a stupid story," I responded. "No, it's not. It's a story of survival," she said. It is a survivor, a little like me.

Serial Dating

posted: Friday May 9th - 9:41am

I joined three dating sites, but forget the passwords half the time — not to mention the names of the dates themselves.

The dating is spinning out of control. Ever since the ex dumped me, I've joined three dating sites, maniacally clicking through headshots and profiles in the same fashion that I skim through jobs. Half the time, I forget the passwords anyway.

In my mind, I keep thinking I am a job hopper, and now I'll be a serial dater, too. Next, next, next. There are 10 dates now, which I rotate from one to the next in a la carte of the day-fashion.

Yesterday, I ran from work, to subway, to pool, and then jumped out of the chlorine universe around 8 p.m. to meet the next date on the assembly line: a ping-pong-eyed middle-aged man who chased me down in midtown Manhattan with flatteries and his business card two months ago.

He said that he saw me and became infatuated much in the way one falls in love with Brad Pitt or Julia Roberts. Stalker alert. I've been trying to shake him off like lint on the jacket. He's been emailing and calling, and finally, I agreed to dinner. I cheapened my worth and figured that at least it was a free meal. How easily I am bought.

Over sushi at a neighborhood Japanese eatery, he said he was looking for a relationship, someone to get to know. "If I wanted sex, I wouldn't be here because you know I could get it anywhere," he said, as he asked for my hand. "Come on, please, I just want to give you a kiss," he pleaded. I shook my head and turned into an icy cold ironing board.

For conversation, I told him about the broken-hearted friend of mine who can't get over her ex-boyfriend. "Tell her that men come and go like buses," he said. I didn't laugh. I think he's dead serious.

I wolfed down the platter of spicy roll as he went on about how he could just tell I was "the one." He asked me why I was so closed, so unwilling to open myself up. He looked at me as if he were in a trance, and I asked him if he was married and had kids. "I'm divorced and I have kids, but sure, I'd like to have more," he said. The guy was insane. Only the second date, and he wants to marry me and have children.

It got me wondering why I was here. Why wasn't I sitting at home, writing a to-do list, meditating, researching the latest and greatest meds? Why wasn't I taking the ADD more seriously? Why wasn't I trying to get better, so to speak.

I've lost track of the names of the dates, and tried to find a way to organize them in the same way I attempt, with much failure, to organize job contacts or the emails of friends. I've packed the week with a date every night, hoping to suffocate the scraps of free time. I fear that I will call the ex again and ask him if he will pretty please get back together with me.

The other day I rang the wrong Dave, flirting when I first called, when in fact it was another Dave who I barely know. I am shameless and impulsive. Is it the ADD, or is it the 32-year old-woman whose biological clock now feels like a ticking time bomb?

It got me thinking that maybe I should date a fellow ADDer or, better yet, marry one. In a lapse of loneliness, I emailed one of the guys from the guinea pig group, and asked if he wanted to have drinks some time. Finally after a phone tag marathon, we had drinks at a bar.

He's in his late 40s and repeatedly said he was self-conscious because of the bridge work. He asked me if I wanted to get together some time again, just for fun. I knew we'd have a lot to talk about. We'd be able to swap war stories, relate to everything from jobs gone awry to relationships gone astray.

It was very tempting to get together again because misery attracts company, but somehow I kept thinking that two ADD people equals disaster. I had images of piles of dirty dishes, mountains of unwashed clothes, and a flurry of unpaid bills. He called again and again, leaving messages, and the third time, I answered and made up an excuse. I said it's been all too crazy at work. Sorry, I said. Not this week.

On a broader issue, it also got me fretting that maybe I'll never have an intimate relationship, and walk down an aisle. The ADD me gets bored of someone too nice and attainable. I need a human Bunsenburner, someone who can be romantic one minute and cold and aloof the next. In many ways, it's no different than the job situation. I need tough love, which, in the end, doesn't sound very romantic.

Killing Fish

posted: Tuesday May 6th - 10:18am

I'd slept like a pig and broken all the self-made resolutions. Why even take the Adderall, I wondered?

I almost killed the betta fish. Blame it on the really long and awful date last weekend with the 35-year-old virgin (or closet gay guy).

We've been having swim and breakfast dates since November, and he hasn't made a single move. There's the polite farewell hug, and he insists on picking up the tab, but I'm starting to feel like I'm driving through a heavy fog.

Should I risk a friendship, and ask him flat out if he likes me? The sister says that, for some reason, I always need things clear-cut, like the black and white cookies. "Maybe it's your ADD," she said. Maybe. I'm not sure if he's a 35-year-old virgin, but given that he's never bothered to hold my hand or even kiss me, I think he's just weird.

We waited on line in front of the museum for almost two hours, in the wind tunnel of Fifth Avenue. The weather has been freaky, bipolar. It's May and it feels like March. Sara, my new wing girl from church, came to wait on line with us, and to meet "the guy." She's all outgoing and chirpy and tried to entertain the guy with her bad jokes and bad dating stories. He laughed hard… maybe he liked her.

Anyway, we waited in the cold, shivering, whining about the weather; an hour passed and then another half an hour. I wanted to go home. I was cold, bored. I wanted to sit before a warm fireplace someplace in Lake Placid, somewhere in the arms of the ex-lover.

This was a popular event at the museum; the city's tres chic crowd had come out to dance and drink inside. It was a good idea, but it was fast fizzling like the thousand other ideas I had. "I'm kind of cold, I'm not sure if I want to go in," the wing girl said. I was so thankful she'd said that. We slipped out of the line and called it a night.

Then yesterday morning, Marilyn the fish didn't move. I tapped the half-drunken can of Diet Coke against the bowl, and before I knew it, there was a clink, a hole in the bowl, and the water and pebbles rushing out like a tsunami—and the fish, nowhere to be found. Shit. It was surreal. Was I dreaming this?

I combed the floor on my knees, searching for Marilyn. After what seemed like an eternity, I lifted the computer and saw it there, barely moving. I grabbed the bowl of grapes from the fridge, threw the grapes out, poured water into the bowl and threw the fish in there. It was dead. I had killed it. But then I saw a fin move and an eye blink. It had come to life again. The resurrection of Marilyn.

I was relieved, but, at the same time, alarmingly aware of how things were starting to spin out of control again. It was 11:15 a.m. I'd slept like a pig and broken all of the resolutions that I'd made. "rink everything I pour." "No Internet after 10 p.m." Why even bother taking the Adderall, I wondered?

After dealing with the fish crisis, I found myself running around like a chicken with its head cut off. I had the marathon of swim lessons starting at noon. I found myself running to the pool, breathless and trying to contain the anxiety as I walked up to student number one and tried to muster a faux smile. I wondered if she knew how harried everything was, how I'd overslept the alarm, almost killed the fish, and how I ran seven blocks to make the lesson. I was four minutes late, but made it nonetheless.

I felt myself wanting to beat myself up again, but decided that life was too short. I'd made it. I’d taught the beginners how to float, and I'd taught a really scared woman how to blow bubbles.

She told me how a lifeguard had playfully pushed her into a pool when she was little, and how she's been traumatized since. "You're doing fine," I said to her. "You're doing great," I said to her after she had gotten into the pool and went under the water on the count of three. In the end, I found myself smiling once again. We were both trying our best.

Winter Blues, Paving the Way for a Spring Funk

posted: Friday May 2nd - 11:02am

I calculated the cost for ADD meds and therapy as $10,000 a year, and felt like I was backed into a corner, suffocating.

The betta fish looks depressed. It's sunk to the bottom of the bowl like a submarine, and spits out its food in cannon ball style. I know how it feels. I sympathize and empathize.

I went to the writing class for the last time yesterday — once again 15 minutes late — and when the group turned to discuss my piece, the same criticisms were there. "It's redundant.” “When I read it, I feel like I have ADD." "It's kind of jumpy." "I don't get it." I want to scream: WHAT DON'T YOU GET!

At the same token, the writing guru turned to me and asked, out of sincere curiosity, if a person knows that they are supposed to be on time, then what prevents them from doing so? I mean, it seems so fixable, right? The mantra for my life so far.

It's a fine question, a million-dollar ADD question. Yes, I have tried different things. I have tried the time log, which was lost under the flurry of paper. I’ve tried the "Do three things a day" system that the father consistently bags over my head. "The theme is three," he says. It seems so obvious, so simple.

And I’ve tried the "Do not turn on the computer after 10 p.m." system. But there I am, after a week of being so good, scanning through the dating sites—with desperation emanating from my pores.

The other day I stopped on the sidewalk, feeling devastated when a thought wiped out another thought. "I'm going to be 33 this year. Shit." …And the career is nowhere close to where I want it to be.

Anyway, I looked back at the writing guru and said that it was my dream to be "normal," to have a normal sense of time, to not be impulsive. I said I’ll never know how much of it is me and how much of it is ADD. It’s a life of trial and error, but I try really hard.

I went on a job interview for the first time the other day. It’s a four-day-a-week gig, lots of freedom, decent pay, but, once again, no health care perks. No exceptions. I calculated that the money for the magic pills and shrinks would come to some $10,000 a year at least, and turned blue again. It felt like I was being backed into a corner, that suffocating feeling when I'm thrust into the subway rush hour mosh pit in the morning.

"It's a shame," I told myself as I walked out of a perfectly wonderful interview and opportunity. But a lot of things were a shame, right.

The Trouble with Tough Love

posted: Wednesday April 30th - 9:41am

From the father to Uncle Sam to shrinks, no one's cutting slack on my ADD lapses.

I was invited to my first Jewish birthday party over the weekend. My friend and fellow swim buddy, Barbara, celebrated her big 6-5. It was at a hole-in-the-wall Romanian steakhouse in Chinatown.

But before that, I had breakfast with the father at a cafe across Grand Central. He tells me that Uncle Sam sent back my tax form because I forgot to fill out a line – very ADD of me :) – and he hands me all of these checks from the flexible spending account reminding me of all I have spent on the Buddhaman and on the shrink woman, who, by the way, is leaving and will be replaced by someone else. I'm sad about it. For a while, it was nice to have someone who was sympathetic, rather than drill sergeant-like, even though I know I need tough love.

The father keeps telling me that if I want to date men, I need to undergo some behavior modification, like be more understanding, do more listening, less talking. He says that sometimes I talk too much. I wonder how much of this is me versus ADD. It's the whole chicken and egg question, which came first? I said I am trying.

In some ways, I have become increasingly more empathetic with the adults who I teach swimming lessons with on Saturdays. I feel for them. One of them is a woman in her mid 40s, a mousy woman with Tammy Faye Bakker-thick mascara. She looked like she was going to cry when I said that we'd go under the water together to just get wet. Like a shower, like the rain. Blowing bubbles was like blowing out birthday candles, I told her.

She was shaking and kept saying repeatedly, "OK, OK, OK," but I knew it wasn't OK. It seemed obvious and easy to me, but not to her. In the same fashion, someone could look at me and tell me to calm down, do less, focus more, but it's easier said than done.

At the Jewish birthday party, I drank a lot of wine, munched on crackers topped with chopped liver, did shots of egg creme, and looked at the tables of friends and how happy they all seemed. We sang Happy Birthday to Barbara as she held hands with her 90-plus year-old father. Their happiness seemed genuine, too.

Afterward, I drowned my sorrows and the guilt of egg creme, macaroons, and cake by heading to the pool. At the end of the workout, I saw the ex walk in.

He's weird, because he looked at me, stayed around as I swam, and then he said, "a pleasant surprise." I'm starting to feel like it's all empty words anyway. Why should I care? I like him, but there's that old saying, "If you love someone, set them free." Very cliché, but I'm starting to like clichés. They make me feel good like chocolate.

It's Finally Over

posted: Monday April 28th - 11:59am

Why do I keep looking back instead of going forward?

It's over. After completely comprehending that the ex-boyfriend does not want contact, I deleted all of his text messages with a single touch.

Ahhh, the beauty of technology. I promise myself I will not be a cyber-stalker anymore. He hasn't been answering the phone, emails, or anything. Bastard, bastard. I hate men. I keep joking with the sister that I am becoming a man-hater in Maureen Dowd fashion.

Mentally I feel shitty. I've signed up for all of the dating sites, only to get a few measly pokes from the divorced, over 44, and divorced-over-44-with-two-kids set.

"You don't want someone's leftovers," a friend tells me. Of course I don't, but even with the ex, I envy his mysterious ex-wife, who actually got him. I wish he would have told me what she was like, what she looked like. I'm so curious.

“It's not fair, life's not fair, a lot of things are a shame,” the father says. It's a shame that some babies die when they are born, that newlyweds die in a head-on collision on their honeymoon, it's a shame that all of those people died on Sept. 11—but what are you going to do about it? Why do you keep looking back, instead going forward, he asks? I am fixated and obsessed with what didn't work instead of what did.

Feeling the Sting of ADD

posted: Friday April 25th - 10:14am

I've taken the meds, but it's failing me. ADD is still that two-year-old wreaking havoc on my life.

I got together with the middle-aged, sad-looking guy who I'd met through the ADHD behavior therapy group (aka guinea pigs). He's weathered, very weathered, and there is a sadness about him, which I am drawn to.

We sat at a bar, drinking beer and swapping stories of how ADD is like that two-year-old who wreaks havoc on our lives. I want to date him, but I know I shouldn't, because I am seeking someone to ease the hole that the ex-boyfriend has left in my heart.

I've become man-obsessed lately: man, marriage and baby obsessed. I had a dream a few nights ago that I was nine months pregnant, big as a barge, and gave birth to, of all things, a goldfish. I know it's strange and bizarre, but what does that say about the unconscious?

I did not show up at writing class last night. I still feel the sting of the snipe from the fellow classmate who looked at me, after I said I liked the way she bunched all of her characters together in her novel-in-progress, and responded, “You would. You have ADD." Bastard woman! I felt like the ultimate failure, again, that I should be in the corner wearing a dunce cap, and, AGAIN, apologizing for simply being me.

Work is a painful place to be, simply because the new girl is rocking. She's written two feature articles, and she's so peppy, friendly, confident. She’s like this Asian female version of my former work nemesis, except she's a shitty writer. I know because I peeked at her writing in the computer queue before it was edited, and I saw how raw and simple it was, how it lacked spark and color. I smirked. I know, bad, bad, bad.

This week, I’ve fallen again into a funk of being unable to start the engine. I arrived at work and was like a hurricane, my hands flying out like octopus tentacles, one hand reaching to check voicemail, the other email, the other breakfast, and the other the newspaper (which I never really read). It sounds terrible, but I'd rather just skim the headlines than read the articles. In the end, the newspaper goes in the little round cylinder (aka the garbage can).

I had taken the ADD meds, but I believe they are failing me. I showed up at the shrink's office on the wrong day. I didn't know until I glanced at my watch, and started knocking on her door. She came out and looked confused. "Honey, I have you down for tomorrow," she said. I couldn't believe it. ONCE AGAIN, I had it wrong. I kicked myself mentally and thought, "Screw up again." I left, my head hanging like an overripe fruit, and went back to work. Stupid me.

Instead of focusing on work, I focused on stalking the ex-boyfriend, breaking the DO NOT CALL rule. I wondered why doesn't he get back to me, if he has a heart, I read somewhere that people with ADD are very passionate and have a good sense of people. I want to say goodbye to him—closure, closure—and return the $500 watch and the withered flower petals. I know this isn't very mature of me, but in some ways my sincerity and honesty took a hit with his coyness. Bastard, I think mostly to myself. I am way too naive.

Springtime Blues

posted: Tuesday April 22nd - 9:14am

When everything is one big question mark, it becomes more than just the ADD.

I got together with John yesterday. Nice guy who was part of the guinea pig group. He's in his late 40s, and has a weathered look about him. At one point, he was probably good looking, the football player kind, total jock material.

We sat at a bar, and he talked about the litany of failed jobs, the career changes, the way the mysterious beast ate into his work, relationships, friendships—it was all a mystery to him; what was wrong?

He was one big miserable question mark, his self-esteem taking another pot shot every time he went to another job, got into another relationship. I looked deep into his eyes, as blue as the waters in Bermuda. It was the skin and the gut that gave away his vintage.

His tale was so familiar, a life of failures. (Although, on the other hand, he talked about running his own business now from his apartment.) Over club soda and diet coke, we examined how much of the impulsivity and inability to listen and grasp was fear, personality, and commitment phobia, as opposed to ADD. It felt good to finally talk with someone who understood and got it—refreshing and yet it felt a bit like therapy.

He's too old for me. I'm not attracted to him. My heart is with the man who broke it and is supposedly moving away, but I'm only human in that I'd like to replace him. This is more than about being ADD, it’s about being human.

Popepalooza

posted: Monday April 21st - 5:05pm

I waited three hours on line to get into Yankee Stadium to see the Pope on Sunday, and then I sat through a three-hour mass, nearly driving my obsessive ADD self into a nervous breakdown.

The relationship-friendship, whatever you call it, is as dead as a doornail. The ex keeps telling me to relax, chill out. If he took a step closer, he'd understand that his behavior—the sort of silent, non-communicative attitude—does the very opposite. I am getting angry with these NATO (no action, talk only) men, and am ready to take out the stinger.

I would like to resort to the extreme—a nunnery—or write a nasty book in Maureen Dowd-style, and slam all of them. Why are they all commitment-phobes? Why don't any of them want to settle down and commit? Why do they all shy away from the "C" word, as if it were leprosy?

In hopes that I might be cured of obsessiveness, I waited three hours on line to get into Yankee Stadium to see the Pope on Sunday. The beehive of people, the shrill screaming of ambulances, and the roar of the subways almost drove my ADD self into a nervous breakdown.

I wished I'd brought my earplugs to block it all out. I waited alone, realizing that in recent months, I've become addicted to the cell phone, checking messages and text messaging in the same way I check email.

"Turn off the cell," the sister has said. "Just be alone. Can you be alone and enjoy yourself?" she asks. The answer is no. I feel like I always need to be on the go. The next project, the next writing, the next date, the next man. It is either boredom or fixation.

I scored seats right behind the home plate, and tried to be a good Catholic girl and sit through a three-hour mass, but, if anything, it felt like torture. Sometime after an hour and a half, I got up to leave, but before reaching the exit, past the army of security, something stopped me. I thought to myself, "I never sit through anything, this would the exception." I returned to my seat just in time for the mass communion, Eucharistic ministers everywhere, walking around with bowls of wafers. It was mass pandemonium.

I left the stadium at dusk thinking that rather than being cured, I was more desperate than ever to be connected with someone. There, I had sat amongst 60,000 people and even the Pope—and I felt lonelier than ever. It convinced me that even if I found a true love now, nothing would ever be good enough, because I'd continue to toil with the ADD self, and feel the shame, guilt, anger and the storm within. Not even the Pope and his blessing seemed to calm the storm, I thought, slipping into the sardine-packed subway.

Pondering Career Options

posted: Monday April 21st - 10:40am

Take the plunge (and lose the job perks) or stay in an ADD funk?

Last night, I had the sweetest sleep, a long marathon of a snooze, where I slipped in and out of dreams. I dreamt that I was late for swimming, slipping and sliding on the asphalt, that I was in the middle of the ocean drifting in and out of waves, the white caps swallowing me.

When I awoke, it was 10 a.m., and I'd overslept swim practice, overslept the promises of going to bed early and awaking at the crack of dawn. I'd overslept the alarm, too.

I was back in an ADD funk.

I spent all day Friday running around, playing hooky and going on an interview. Wanted: writer to come in, four days a week. No benefits, no health care, contract, writing whore.

The idea of taking the freelance plunge was depressing as I pondered the whole chicken and egg thing. On one hand, if I left behind the albatross of a job, I'd lose the perks like the shrink and my ADHD medication.

But, if I stayed, I'd sink into misery, knowing very well that this isn't me and always kicking myself for making mistakes that I simply shouldn't make. I’m still dreaming of running my own show, of no longer living under a bell jar where I am subject to criticism and complaints at work that I could do better.

I told the father that I went to see the Pope yesterday at Yankee Stadium. “Good,” he smiled, “maybe your luck will change.”

Not.

« All Blogs