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