“A Million Thoughts”
In the course of a work day, my thoughts vary from how to be a fashion designer to making a soufflé. Will I ever find a place of peace?
Last night, I went to a dinner with a top-ranking editor at a big celeb rag. There were at least a dozen other journos, and we were all pining for the woman’s attention.
She’s in her late 30s, has two cute kids, a really nice husband, and makes at least a million a year. What more could a woman ask for? I wondered if she had any hidden skeletons, because, from the looks of her Prada bag and her Marc Jacobs outfit, it certainly didn’t seem that way.
As I listened to the celebrity editor speak, I wondered if I would ever find a place of peace. Even at work, a million ideas and thoughts shoot through my mind. In the course of one work day, the thoughts included: how to be a fashion designer, going to Paris, learning to make a soufflé, learning to podcast, buying a Banana Republic dress. I am always tempted to acquire more things-as if what is on the plate isn’t enough.
The father repeatedly says, Remember the rule of three, and sometimes I get so angry when he says that. It seems so logical… but I can’t do it.
I feel naked at times, wondering if strangers can see the fear, anxiety, and the shame that comes with ADHD. Today the boss looked disappointed and a bit hurt that I forgot to tell her that I wasn’t going to get something in on time. It wasn’t intentional; I forgot. I am lucky in that the boss and certain friends are forgiving. (Others aren’t. Rather than tell me that they are sick and tired of my tardiness and selfishness, they no longer call or email.)
I’ve been taking 15 mg of Adderall, a 5 mg increase from what it was last month. I haven’t noticed much of a difference except that, at times, I can get very testy and blue. Even swimming in the lane, I will curse the slower swimmers in front of me. Move, move, I think.
And sometimes at the supermarket, I will feel so much in a rush that rivers of sweat will pour down my back. A cashier the other day asked me if I was okay, because, well, it just didn’t seem that way.
“Living on the Rhythm of an Oven Timer”