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