ADHD Dad Blog

Better Late Than Never

Archives: September 2009

ADHD Rage, Explained

When my ADHD daughter yells and explodes out of frustration, I identify with her intensely. I can see the overload crowding into her head pushing all rational thoughts into an airless corner where the only way out is to react and react big or you’re sure you’ll suffocate.

“I’ve always known that there’s more going on inside me than finds its way into the world, but this is probably true of everyone. Who doesn’t regret that he isn’t more fully understood?” -- Richard Russo, Bridge of Sighs

“God, you guys -- I’ll do my homework after I eat, okay? Stop bugging me about every stupid thing every stupid second! You make my life a nightmare!” With that, my fourteen-year-old ADHD daughter, Coco, storms into her room with her bowl of mac and cheese, and slams her door so hard it sounds like a gunshot, which sets the dog on a barking jag. Between barks, I can hear Coco kicking the wall. I stand in the kitchen still holding the pot and spoon I made her dinner with, close my eyes, and keep my mouth shut.

I am not going to respond in kind. I am going to breathe.

Slow even breath in, slow even breath out.

I learned this from my last therapist. The therapist, who after years of slowly building mutual trust and rapport, deserted me to face the daily emotional pummeling of being a parent all by myself. So this nightmare, as my daughter calls it, is all his fault, the selfish creep. I should hunt him down and beat his head in with this mac and cheese spoon. But he’s not a selfish creep. He set me up with another therapist before he closed his practice. And I’m not facing this parenting stuff alone. My wife, Margaret, is right here, sitting at the kitchen table.

“Your cheese is dripping,” she says. Margaret has a less extreme approach to life. She sees the humor in both of our kids’ dramas. She watches as I put the spoon in the sink and wipe up the cheese sauce from the floor. Breathe in, breathe out.

“Are you okay?”

“Mmm -- hmm,” I nod, between slow even breaths.

“Your problem is, you take things too much to heart,” Margaret says and smiles.

That’s a phrase we picked up from Richard Russo’s novel, Bridge of Sighs, describing Lucy, a man prone to occasional blackout spells who’s nearly immobilized by love, family, guilt and obligation and who I identified with intensely. It’s become a gentle joke between us, because I do. I take everything too much to heart. It’s not that I get my feelings hurt; it’s that I get immobilized by compassion.

When Coco yells and explodes out of frustration, I identify with her intensely, too. In her eyes, I can see the overload crowding into her head pushing all rational thoughts into an airless corner where the only way out is to react and react big or you’re sure you’ll suffocate.

No matter how gently requests or questions are put to you -- and sometimes that’s worse because then it sounds like condescending “careful of the mental patient” talk -- but however it comes at you in a short amount of time or just the wrong time for you -- you lash out to stop it, but you’re also lashing out at yourself inside your head looking to break apart this wall holding in the overload and let air in -- just one second of quiet air -- that’s all you want, and in the moment, bright red rage is the only hope for release and you don’t give a damn about anyone else. A second later, you apologize and add that new bag of guilt onto the huge pile you carry around your whole life. And of course, the pressure of that guilt adds to the next overload.

So I’m always telling Coco, “No sorries, it’s all okay,” whenever she apologizes over small things, or even medium things. I think we need to forgive others their slights and slips as much as possible. But more importantly, we have to learn to forgive ourselves and, maybe with some help from others, work on adjusting how we handle things.

Coco and I both have been working on managing our tempers and doing pretty well at it. She told me what she does is slow things down and not talk. “It’s not that I’m not listening, Dad,” she says “I just don’t want to lose my temper and mess things up.” The more pressured she feels in her head, the slower she takes it -- whether it’s getting ready for school in the morning, doing homework, or getting ready for bed at night.

I don’t know what I can do about taking everything too much to heart, especially when it comes to those I love and value, but I can probably do better at shaking off the anxiety. I’ll work on adjusting that. I might try a little of Coco’s “go slow” approach myself.

ADHD and Money Deficit Disorder

I try to give our family finances the care and attention they require, but if there’s anything in the world that triggers a deficit of attention in me, it’s a column of figures that never adds up to a positive number.

Yesterday, just when I was thinking we were making some headway, financially, and I was feeling a little better about myself, in general, the oil sensor, water pump, and starter all went out on the car at the same time. We had plans for that five hundred dollars. If we even still have it. I might have spent most of it on a new camera tripod.

Truth is, I hate money. Or, it hates me. No matter what I do, we just don’t get along, we never have. I try to give our family finances the care and attention they require, but if there’s anything in the world that triggers a deficit of attention in me, it’s a column of figures that never adds up to a positive number.

It’s been this way forever. At ten, I only managed to sell three tickets to the Boy Scout Anniversary Jamboree -- two to my parents and one to the depressed lady next door who I think thought I was collecting for the paper. This wasn’t enough to get the prize -- a Motorola Transistor Radio. But what was worse was when I turned in my official Jamboree cardboard box with “Trustworthy” scrolled across the top in big letters; the Scoutmaster discovered I was short six bucks. I’m pretty sure I had planned to replace it with allowance or lawn-mowing money, but I forgot. I even forgot I’d spent the money, so later when I got the lawn-mower money, I forgot to put that in the “Trustworthy” Jamboree box, so now I was standing in front of the Scoutmaster and the whole troop being fingered as a thief. I wasn’t, honest. I just forgot to cover the deficit.

Later, after my dad paid the difference, I went on the Jamboree camp-out and since they all thought I was a thief anyway, I stole the Motorola Transistor Radio from the winner’s tent, got caught, and was kicked out of Boy Scouts. See, the winner was such a smarmy show-off and kept rubbing it in...but that’s another story -- maybe an advice article: “ADHD, Get Even Now -- Before You Forget.” Maybe not.

But I’m talking about money. As what passes for an adult, I got credit cards and promptly forgot every amount I charged as soon as I had whatever I bought in my possession. When the bills came, I paid the minimum -- when I remembered -- and was shocked when, card by card, they were refused when I tried to buy a TV.

Still, I was basically a poor cook/waiter/starving artist type trying to balance my checkbook and pay my rent, so I couldn’t get into that much trouble. Then, success reared its ugly head. When the Hollywood cash rolled in, I figured I never had to worry about money again and promptly began throwing it out the window like confetti.

I put up a sort of “together” front in those days, and both my wife, Margaret, and I were confident that no matter what, my career in the L.A. television world was solid, so there wasn’t that much to worry about. Of course, we were completely wrong.

Now I’m back to being a poor, starving artist type, and I’m more comfortable in that position in life for a lot of reasons -- the people I’ve admired in life were never the wealthy ones. But still, I’ll probably be working off old debt until I’m even older and grayer. And when I see my ADHD son and daughter impulse buy and treat money with the same absent disregard I did, I worry.

So I tell them stories of my screw-ups and try to give both of them hints on how to not to focus on possessions, and to stay aware of the dollars flowing in and out of their lives, and help them see that even though it’s not how we measure the true value of life, we need to give our individual and family finances the attention they require to at least keep us fed, sheltered, and not totally stressed out by harassing debt-service calls at all hours. I think they’re getting it. Though when I told my daughter, “I really was going to put the money back in the Boy Scout box -- I just forgot,” she rolled her eyes.

So we keep going, and pray that the car doesn’t need any more major repairs before spring. And even if I still hate it, these days I’m trying to treat money with at least a little more respect.

Me, the Cop, and ADHD

When I was drinking, I could blame my memory lapses on blackouts. Now I have to face the fact that my scattered memory is just a comorbid condition attached to my ADHD brain.

I’m driving in downtown Honolulu at 4 a.m. and suddenly my rearview mirror is filled with flashing cop car lights. I pull my very junky ’83 Jetta to the curb and the Honolulu Police officer walks up and puts a flashlight on me. I hand over the license and registration, and he asks me where I’m coming from. “I’ve just finished a video shoot over at a gym, we have to shoot at night when they’re closed, it ran long, ten hours -- all my fault -- didn’t schedule the shoot the best way and should have hired an assistant to handle the lights...” I know I’ve clicked into a hypo-manic ramble but I can’t shut myself up -- every detail seems vitally important for him to understand the context of how I got to be in this situation. He’s lucky I don’t start from back in high school. Still keeping the light on me, the cop interrupts.

“What gym was this?”

“Um, the uh...” I’m not ready for that question. I can’t remember the name of the place. I was just there. There’s a huge red and yellow sign over the door of the place. I can see it in my memory but not what it says.

“It’s the one, not 24 Hour, smaller...um...”

I’m locked. There’s no way I’m coming up with the name until I’ve gotten home, put my feet up, and had a vanilla yogurt with Honey Bunches of Oats on top. I sure wish I had a bowl of that right now. But I don’t and I’m just still hopelessly stammering on -- now describing the red and yellow sign in detail to the cop.

“It’s not neon, it’s like a big light box with the front painted and a picture or more like an icon, really, of a guy lifting weights...”

He interrupts again.

“You know you ran a stop light back there?”

“I did? Oh. I didn’t see it.” That’s obvious. What isn’t obvious is what I was preoccupied with that caused me not to see the light. Just as I open my mouth to start to explain that, the cop hands me back my license and registration, pointing out that the registration needs to be renewed, and says he’s letting me off with a warning. I’m grateful, but I think he just figured that if he had to listen to one more minute of my ping-ponging, hyper-detailed chatter, he’d put a bullet in my head. And then there would be all that paperwork.

The next day, my wife Margaret says he let me go because he was probably looking for drunk drivers. Lucky thing he didn’t stop you a few years ago, she says. No doubt, but back when I was drinking I was actually better at keeping my mouth shut when I was in conflict with authority figures. I didn’t want them to smell the booze. Also, when I was drinking, I could blame my memory lapses on blackouts. Now I have to face the fact that my scattered memory is just a comorbid condition attached to my ADHD brain that makes for constant surprises. I hate surprises.

Case in point -- two weeks later I’m pulled over by another cop because my registration sticker is out of date. I had completely spaced the last cop’s warning. In the course of things, she asks me what my phone number is. I squint into her flashlight. I should be ready for this question -- it's so easy. But no.

“Uh, its...37...no wait, its 932...no...”

I start to explain that numbers on demand are a challenge for me, especially when I’m questioned by authority figures. Even at the Safeway checkout line when you’re supposed to type it in to the little pad if you don’t have your Safeway Club card, which I lost the minute I got it. She doesn’t care. She just hands me a ticket and sends me home.

At home, I put my feet up with a bowl of yogurt and cereal and wait. The lock-box in my head opens, and my phone number tumbles out, a happy little useless surprise. But I quietly repeat it over and over to myself as I eat. I’ll be ready the next time.

Man Overboard: The ADHD Cruise Ship Manifesto

Each individual’s experience with ADHD - whether as the parent, spouse, or friend, or the one who’s actually trying in vain to nail their brain down to one spot – is just so... individual.

Due to the sometimes overwhelming presence of ADHD in my family’s life, I read a lot of books, blogs, and articles about the subject, always looking for some new insight or piece of information I can learn from. But really, I’m hoping to identify with other people’s stories of everyday struggles and small victories with ADHD.

The trouble is, each individual’s experience with ADHD - whether as the parent, spouse, or friend, or the one who’s actually trying in vain to nail their brain down to one spot – is just so… individual.

I was reading a very entertaining piece about not fitting in with the non-ADHD world that mentioned how great it would be to be on an all-ADHD cruise where everybody would accept abrupt changes of subject and being interrupted in conversations. The idea being, I think, is that ADHDers would understand and be more tolerant of each other.

I wouldn’t last a minute on that boat. I deal with my own ADHD in a more desperate and well, fascist-like manner. I sit in the cave in my head and desperately hold onto each wiggling, slippery thought and errant, stammering word. I don’t want to lose them before I examine and devour them, or put them in little labeled cages for later. And yes, a second later I forget what wall of the cave I put the cage or the label falls off when I knock it over looking for another cage from last week.

But the point is, I don’t enjoy chaos. It is my everyday world, and I’ve found ways to use it creatively, but in an existence of constant flashing lights, ringing bells and bumper cars I crave peace and whatever sliver of order and understanding I can find, and when I find it, I give it everything I’ve got.

So, when I’m writing or reading and someone interrupts me, I tend to jump out of my skin. When I’m interrupted when I’m talking I go blank and immediately search for my train of thought that has immediately zoomed off for parts unknown, never to be heard from again. I’ve long ago stopped grieving for these orphan trains, but I still feel a twinge every time a fully formed gorgeous thought turns into empty track. My two ADHD kids don’t act this way themselves and think I’m skittish, which goes with my generally eccentric home persona. My non-ADHD over-achiever wife is more understanding, but that’s probably due in part to being married to me for 25 years.

The ADHD community is filled with individuals who have much in common and much to share with each other. But maybe due to the fact that ADHD directly affects the way we see and interpret the world around us and the world inside our heads, I think our experiences and how we live with them are amazingly diverse. This, in the end, is a very good thing.

Just don’t put me on that boat.