An ADHD diagnosis is like driving a nail through a blob of mercury. With all the other comorbid conditions mucking up my brain, diagnosis is a shot in the dark.
by Bill Mehlman
Remember "Gee, Officer Krupke" from
West Side Story?
Brilliant lyrics (you were expecting maybe gibberish from Sondheim) including this line:
Hey, I'm depraved on account I'm deprived.
It's a problem. You go to your doctor with your pinkie finger sticking out perpendicular to the side of your hand, it's pretty obvious — you broke a bone. Your doctor tells you that your liver weighs as much as a bowling ball, and is about the same consistency — right, the quart of Jim Beam for lunch has to go.
You go to your doctor and tell him that you can't keep your mind on your work? Note how the glassy stare appears on your medico's face as he reaches for his prescription pad. You know what's going on inside his mind, don't you?
Xanax? Ritalin? Prozac? Concerta?" Did my nurse really mean that? local:/adhd/article/718.html:"Wellbutrin? Who's on 'Dancing with the Stars' tonight? Strattera? Honestly, I'm not impugning doctors. Sometimes they can't concentrate either. But this kind of diagnosis is like driving a nail through a blob of mercury, to resurrect a venerable cliché. If you're discussing this problem with your internist, my careful calculations predict that he has approximately 1 chance in 7 of coming up with the right answer. And he'll probably hedge by suggesting an alternative, just so he has a chance for the place money (caught me - been reading Damon Runyon again).
No, of course I don't know where I'm going with this, you knucklehead. I'm the one with the wanderlust-infected synapses. I had a thought when I began, I think. Now it's just autopilot. And someone seems to have put a magnet next to my compass.