ADHD Physics and the Art of Vacationing

I work a lot.  I have a full time job. I'm a wife and a mom to two very high-spirited boys who demand a lot of attention. I do housework--not very well--but I do it. I volunteer. I look after an elderly mother (my own, yes; and she's quite a handful). And lately, I've been writing web copy for quarters for a popular crowdsourcing site.  I don't sleep much.  And when I'm not doing any of the worky thingies or sleeping, I perseverate. 

Some might call me a workaholic.  I like to think of myself as dedicated. Engaged. Energetic. My chart says I'm hyperactive.  A psychologist might have referred to me once or twice as "avoidant." 

As it turns out, however, everybody's wrong.  Now, I'm used to being wrong.  I've become quite comfortable with it over the past couple of years, since I've been on medication for ADHD, because I am blessed to now have some clarity about how a "normal" mind works, which is virtually nothing at all like my mind works au natural.  My mind, it seems, is a bit like a helium balloon:  if no one's holding onto it to keep it near the Earth, it will most likely float away, sail hither and thither, until it eventually pops from excessive pressure, and makes a child cry. 

But now I have this other perspective, the one I attribute to the particular alter ego of mine that I refer to as Lucan. Yes, Lucan, the Wolf Boy.  Lucan needs her besties to explain to her things like coupons; how to buy things in a store; how to get across town; the dynamics of child birthday-party invitations; cooking in a crock pot.  Most recently, IPG/Lucan sat across from a dear friend, furrowed and confused, feeling like the world was crashing.  Physically and spiritually, I was a wreck, and in typical fashion, Balloon Brain wanted to float higher and higher for the great metaphysical answer to all my questions of being, which of course, once answered would help me attain fulfillment.  But no.  My friend was there to work with Lucan.  So she did what any good friend would do under those circumstances:  she pulled out a pin and popped Balloon Brain.  "You need a vacation.  You need to take a week off from work.  Then you'll be fine." 

Oh!! Lucan take off!! Like aiirrrplane?!  Lucan fly!   "No," my friend insisted.  "Like sit on your butt drinking coffee, and take naps.  Do fun things with the kids." 

I thought, "Now who's talking gibberish! I don't even know what you're saying."  But Lucan is a faithful student, if nothing else.  So I went to my boss and said, "Yeah, so I'm thinking I might take a few days off next week."  Well if she didn't just light up like a Christmas tree.  I'd be exaggerating if I said she looked like she might just push me out the second story window to help me on my way; but it was a tad disconcerting how eager she was to have me take that vacation.  And in that moment I came to terms with the fact that I had run myself useless. 

How in the hell did this happen? Well, I think I figured it out.  It's basic physics.  I'm inert. 

Inertia, in physics, refers to a property of matter by which something that is not moving remains still and something that is moving goes at the same speed and in the same direction until another thing or force affects it. 

 





Medical professionals with expertise in ADHD might refer to this as an internal-regulation deficit.  In other words, I'm basically like an old muscle car with a bad ignition and even worse breaks.  It takes  some work to get me going; and then God help me, because the only way I'm going to stop is if I run out of gas or crash into something.  And sometimes I'm apt to run out of gas while I'm crashing. 

The upshot of all this is that I really suck at vacationing.  Vacationing requires one to stop and go at the same time.  To be good at vacationing, you have to be able to plan things, schedule things, buy things.  Even staying on your butt drinking coffee is hardly any fun if you can't remember to buy coffee, until your caffeine addicted 84-year-old mother starts in.  She survived scarlet fever, diptheria, the Nazis, the Russians, Disco, and the Bush Administration.  But if she doesn't get a good cup of coffee NOW (100% Arabica), it's all over-she's done.  With that surrounding me, I don't really need to do anything on my own.  I've got plenty of help getting batted around in lieu of deciding my next move.

So this "vacation" business is tricky.  I'm doing it now, actually.  Vacationing, that is.  Still in my clothes from yesterday (because I didn't actually go to bed), intermittently cleaning, blogging, "tying up loose ends" remotely for my job (that's not "working," because I'm not supposed to be doing that.)  And of course, trying to figure out how to vacation, because if my life is anything at all, it's a giant quest for useless knowledge.  I've got four more days, plus a weekend to figure it out.  Thank goodness my mother made me buy that coffee. . .

I'll check in.  Let you all know how it's going.  I'm truly hoping to glean some knowledge from all this - some tips that perhaps I can impart to you, on how to be less like a runaway freight train, or a boulder, or a crazy balloon, or a wild-animal-child.  And more like a regular person who vacations.  I'll let you know if I come up with anything. 

Is that Ritalin in your pocket, or are you just too oblivious to see me?

Happy New Year!  It's not too late to say that, right?  It's still January.  Well, I'm finally getting back into the mental groove of normal life after the holidays.  My Christmas lights are still up, but I don't plug them in anymore.  Progress!  Despite the fact that I've been doing it for years now, celebrating Christmas - with all of its complicated logistics- still requires some getting used to.  You see, I'm Jewish.

You'd probably never guess that based on my stellar church-attendance record, or periodic blog references to my Protestant faith, or by a lot of other superficial criteria about me.  My father was a Hungarian Jew, born and raised in Budapest.  He was a Holocaust survivor, in fact. I was raised Jewish and spent much of my young life in the synagogue and Hebrew school. I studied Judaism in college. Some of by best friends are Jewish. Although my faith has taken me on a different path spiritually (maybe a topic for a different day), I self-identify, ethnically, at least, as quite Jewish.

You wouldn't know it by my English surname. My maiden name, on the other hand, would reveal my ethnicity quite obviously . . . if you happen to be a genealogist with special expertise in 19th century Jewish communities that resided along the Hungarian-Ukraine border. Otherwise, you'd probably have no idea.

My first name, on the other hand, is about as Jewish a name as a woman can have, as one translation of the Hebrew means "Female Judean," or "Jewess," as it were. But in post-Biblical times, it's a reasonably common name across the Western Hemisphere. At least it was in 1950.  When I was born nearly 20 years later, my immigrant parents apparently hadn't gotten the memo that "Jennifer" was now the "J" name of choice.

My name was also sort of popular in the 1980's, during my teen years, when virtually every teen-age-coming-of-age-sex-romp movie featured a hot girl (usually named "Jennifer") whose best friend, sidekick, and "wing woman" was a fat, nerdy, ill-complected, sarcastic girl with my first name. As it turns out, my immigrant parents were not only old-fashioned, but also prophetic. But, as you know, I digress . . .

My fair skin and blue-green eyes probably wouldn't clue you in. The photos from my children's baptisms would throw you off the trail entirely. If you happened to be around at the right time, you might overhear me utter some rather obscure Yiddish expressions. And you might then accuse me of being some sort of Judeophilic ironic hipster. Okay, maybe not.  No one says that.

More likely than not, you don't actually lose any sleep at all over whether or not I'm Jewish.

That is, unless you are also Jewish. From experience, I can tell you that Jews in my little patch of America enjoy playing a game I'll call, "Is S/He Jewish??" For full effect, when you utter the name of this game, you have to tilt your head to one side, scrunch up your face, and sound incredulous.

Several years ago, Saturday Night Live featured a skit depicting a game show parody entitled "Jew, Not a Jew," of which the object, as you might guess, was to correctly identify pictured celebrities as Jewish or not. The skit was hilarious; and to one in the know, it was easy to see the affectionate ribbing of an ethnic tradition.

The real-life game starts something like this.  You see someone on TV or meet someone who, for some subtle reason or another, leads you to think s/he might be Jewish.  But the observable facts would suggest otherwise.  Or vice versa, you meet someone who you would swear was Jewish by every standard you can think of . . .but for the fact that he's a Catholic priest.  And you grow curious.

The game, I believe, is an inevitable byproduct of being part of a minority group that "blends." There is a very basic truth about human beings, and that is, we find comfort in connections between ourselves and others who are like us in some meaningful way. Especially when we feel alone. So when you grow up Jewish in a mid-sized factory town on Lake Erie, as I did, with one small synagogue that serves an entire county, you want to know who the other Jews are . . . in case you have to borrow some gefilte fish . . . or not feel like a weirdo.

Like any game, this one has some rules, or more like traditions. You probably won't ever play, for example, while seated in a New York City synagogue on Yom Kippur. There's no sport in that. Unless you notice that the Torah scrolls are being carried by an Asian-looking man wearing a sombrero. And then you grow a little curious.

The real fun is when, some Friday evening, you meet a blond-haired football player from South Dakota named "Chris Goldsteen" who bothers to point out that "it's 'Steen' with a double 'e.'" He tells you about his recent fishing trip, which reminds him of a story from his childhood. You've got a lot on your mind, so while he shares his story, you drift off and start thinking about nail polish remover and calling in your Concerta prescription refill. But you suddenly snap back into the moment when you hear Chris say something that you swear sounded like "Grandma danced the hora at my bar mitzvah reception." You have a hard time believing this guy had a grandma, much less a bar mitzvah; so you quickly decide that you heard wrong, and what he really said was, "Damn that whore's wine-bar mitts and pass interception!" Now, that makes sense to you because Chris follows football. . . and you don't.  Abruptly, Chris looks at his watch and announces that he's sorry, but he has to run.  He has to get to the bakery before it closes and be home before sundown.  You follow his gaze as he glances over to his car that you notice has broken headlights.  You nod sympathetically, and mutter that you understand; you have to get your car fixed too.  You part company.  Chris jumps in his car and drives off. . . as he flips on his fully functioning headlights.  "Sweet Home Alabama" blares from the car stereo.  You wonder why this guy - who looks like someone who should be headed for a frat party or a strip club - would be racing off to a bakery on Friday night, like a Jewish housewife in search of a challah for the Sabbath.  Wait. . . could . . . he. . . ?  Broken headlights, the Sabbath, sundown, Dancing Grandma, wine-swilling whores, a guy named in honor of The Man from Nazareth . . . called to the Torah on his 13th birthday. . .in South Dakota. Your overstimulated brain is trying to make sense of all this paradoxical information in order to understand who it is that you just talked to; and, without thinking about it, you feel your head tilting to one side, your vocal chords tighten, and your face scrunches up. You ask out loud to no one, "Is he Jewish???

And with that, the game is in full swing. You ask your friends what they know about him. You take informal opinion polls from your Jewish friends and from your really observant Secular-Humanist-with-Goddess-Worshipper-Leanings friend who's married to a Jewish guy. You look him up on Facebook in hopes that his page is public and that you'll find there a picture of his dancing grandma or, perhaps, a picture of a whore in a football helmet, wearing wine-bar mitts. You ask your friend, the Jewish guy's wife, what the hell "wine-bar mitts" are because, if such a thing exists, she owns a pair.

You hope you'll see something that helps you answer that all-important question. And soon too, because your face is starting to hurt from all the scrunching.

It's kind of an odd thing that we do, when I think about it. I mean, really, who cares? We're not supposed to care what people are. It's not really PC to care. It's sort of unamerican. When we're that curious about whether or not someone is Jewish, and we eventually learn the answer, we are inevitably like the dog who caught the bus: Great! So . . . what? After all, there aren't too many legitimate contexts in which one must know the ethnic/religious background of a total stranger. So why do we do it?

Let me say here that I think we ALL do it; it's not a habit peculiar to those of a particular ethnic or religious group.  Regardless of how we define ourselves, we all meet people at times and wonder, is this person like me?  As I mentioned, I think connection is one reason. But in the bigger picture, I believe, identifying other members of "our group," however that group is defined, helps us to understand who we are, where we stand, and how we might look to the world.  The dirty little secret in this, is that sometimes it's not connection we seek, but rather distance. When we meet someone we admire, like, look up to, we are delighted to learn that we a share a common background. When we meet someone we fear, dislike, or don't understand, we would perhaps prefer to learn that we have nothing in common with them.  To learn that this person with whom we don't identify is actually more like us than we'd care to recognize, forces us to reconsider our definitions of ourselves and others. 

So what does all this have to do with ADHD, you ask?  Well, because ADHDers do it too, and since I have been diagnosed with ADHD, I have almost a reflexive urge to mentally run through the diagnostic criteria anytime I run into someone who seems a little too chatty, scattered, jumpy, wistful, impulsive, tardy, forgetful, messy. . .I could go on and on.  Literally, I could.  But I'll try not to.

When I scrunch up my face for a round of "Does S/He have ADHD," sometimes I want the answer to be "Yes!"  I want Steve Jobs to have had ADHD.  I like the idea that my brain might have had something in common with his brain.  On the flip side, some people really annoy me.  I might think about someone I have found very annoying and run that person through my mental screening test.  I will sometimes conclude that yes, this person has ADHD, or something like it.  And then I'll mentally give them a "pass" for being annoying.  In fact, once I conclude that someone has ADHD, I might come to admire that person's spontaneity and energy and decide that he isn't annoying at all. 

Unless I don't like that person, in which case, I might prefer to continue thinking of that person as an inconsiderate idiot.

Is this nice or fair or how I want to be treated or how I want to treat others?  Definitely not.  But it is - as am I - woefully human.

Much like it's possible to be a Jew who loves Jesus, I suppose it's entirely possible for someone to have ADHD and also be an inconsiderate idiot. But I don't want to ponder that one too hard.  The potential ramifications of this possibility are just too awful to contemplate . . . when the end goal of the identification game is to fit everyone into a neat and tidy box. 

Recently, my son was watching a video on YouTube that made him belly laugh harder than I've ever heard him laugh before; the boy has never been much of a laugher, so I had to inquire.  My son explained that it's a video by Ryan Higa, who I learned later is a young video producer, film student, and Internet sensation.  I'd never heard of this guy before, but I was definitely curious to know what my son found so funny.    Mr. Higa's video and all the others that I've viewed since then, reflect a modern style of comedy - fast-paced, disjointed, ironic, pointed, and sometimes just plain silly, that I just didn't know what to make of.  My son knew what to make of it - just watch and laugh hysterically.  But I'm a little old school, and although I enjoy irreverent comedy more than just about anything, my first thought about Mr. Higa's work was Well, this is just stupid.  This nonsense is everything that's wrong with kids and America today!  And by the way, you kids get off my lawn . . . and take that crazy Higa boy with you!!! 

But my little guy insisted that I keep watching, so I did.  This was my chance to have mom-and-son time that didn't require me to do anything hard.  He showed me video after video, and before not too long, I was laughing my head off.  This guy is so stupid. . . but hilarious! 

As I continued to watch his videos, something happened.  Whenever we take a step back from our own assumptions and prejudices, interesting things happen.   I began to appreciate how not stupid Mr. Higa's work is.  In his videos, I saw a quick and agile mind--the ability to humorously connect things that have no obvious connection; to mentally be in many places at once; to physically perform many characters at once; to turn a simple phrase in such a way that it elicits delight from word nerds like me and my boy; to poke rather sophisticated fun at some ridiculous stuff.  Hmmm. . . this is all starting to look rather familiar. I found myself now watching the high-energy, fast-talking Mr. Higa through diagnostic eyes:  Does he have ADHD??

So I did a little checking.  I learned that the rumor, at least, is that he does.  Higa has a series of videos entitled "Off the Pill," which, allegedly, are videos that he creates when taking a break from his Ritalin prescription.  Having seen several of the "Off the Pill" videos, I'd say it's quite plausible.

On the other hand, I have not seen Ryan Higa's medical files.  I know nothing about him other than what is written in his online bio, that he seems like a super smart young man, that he makes some really entertaining videos. . .and that he makes my son laugh really, really hard, which is a joy to any mother's ears.  I like him.  I think he makes a nice role model for my boy, an aspiring filmmaker himself.  Now I've got these two boxes in front of me, one labeled "Attention-Deficit Hyperactive Creative Genius!" and the other, "Stupid Anti-Intellectual Foul-Mouthed Slacker Youngster."  I choose not to force Mr. Higa into either one.  Maybe, instead, I'll use the boxes to finally put away my Christmas lights.

Speaking of Christmas lights that still need to be boxed up, this holiday season marked an anniversary for me.  New Year's Day 2012 was exactly ten years since my father passed away.  I've been thinking about him a lot.  Like now. My father was a very charming, and very short man - only 5' 2".  But what he lacked in height, he more than made up for in opinionatedness. 

One of his most passionate opinions was about Gene Simmons.  Yes, that Gene Simmons.  Gene Simmons, the famous and infamous, founder of and front man for the legendary rock band, KISS.  The painted-faced, tongue-wagging Demon, who wore crazy platform boots and had young ladies tossing at him more panties than can be found in a Victoria's Secret warehouse.

My father hated that guy.  I'm not just speculating or exaggerating.  My father would say, "I hate that guy!"  My dad was a very compassionate and open-minded man, generally speaking.  He wasn't a hater.  I know he hated Hitler - that went without saying.  And he hated a couple of talk-radio personalities.  But that was about it.  And then Gene Simmons.  I'm not sure exactly why Gene Simmons ended up on Dad's Top Five to Despise, but anytime KISS came on TV when I was a kid, I dreaded the upcoming hour because I knew I would have to listen to a diatribe about how "That Guy" was stupid and ignorant, and how his nonsense reflected everything that was wrong with kids and America today.  If we had had a lawn, surely Gene Simmons would have been ordered off of it.  My dad had nothing whatsoever in common with that obviously drug-addled, tone deaf, narcissistic moral degenerate now shoving his freakishly long tongue into his band mate's ear.  Or did he . . . .

A guilty little "secret" about me is that I love "reality" TV.  A couple of years ago, I discovered "Gene Simmons Family Jewels," a show that follows the home and business life of Gene Simmons and his family.  Now, I'd never really been up on my "KISS," so when I first sat down to watch "Family Jewels," I knew next to nothing about that guy.  But the show amused me.  And surprised me.  Mr. Simmons looks like a "grown up" now, more or less.  He's a successful entrepreneur and loving family man, more or less.  His long-time partner, now wife, Shannon Tweed, is witty, charming, bright, and interesting.  The Simmons children are every bit as charming and bright.  The show doesn't portray a chaotic life of an out-of-control rock maniac, but rather the life of a successful man with a sharp mind and quick wit, deep affections, vulnerabilities, and yes, some "issues."  Who knew!

As I watched multiple episodes of this show, something started to nag a me.  There was something familiar about that guy.  His facial expressions. The way he carried himself.  The style of his humor.  The tone of his voice and the way he teased his lady and talked to his beloved children.  It really bugged me.  Who does he remind me of??  OMG, he reminds me of Dad!  And then I felt the muscles in my neck flex.  My face got all scrunchy.  Is Gene Simmons Jewish?!?!

Well, it may be common knowledge to people who are up on this sort of thing, that the answer is "yes."  But I did not know this, and when I finally watched an episode that confirmed my suspicions, I nearly hit the floor.  Not only is Mr. Simmons Jewish, but he was born in Israel--as Chaim Witz--the only son of his . . .wait for it. . . Hungarian mother, who was herself a Holocaust survivor.  Mr. Simmons is college educated with a degree in education and has been employed as a school teacher among other very respectable, nonrockstar-like occupations.  He abhors alcohol and speaks with great affection, in Hungarian, with his precious mom. 

My dad would have LOVED that guy!!  But for an astronomical disparity in size between their respective bank accounts, along with a few other minor distinguishing details, my dad could have been that guy!  If I could find a way to travel to The Beyond, then back, I would . . .just so I could tell my dad all this and watch him plotz.  Because even the most loving and respectful child enjoys informing her parents, once in a while, that they had it wrong.

Whenever we shove people into boxes, we usually get it wrong.  Maybe not all of it, but at least some of it.  What we assume we know about people based on their origins; affiliations; appearances; physical, psychological, or neurological conditions, tells only a tiny fraction of anyone's story, including our own, and out of context to boot,  When we shove people into boxes, we certainly do them a disservice; but we limit ourselves almost more than anyone else.  We restrict ourselves from experiencing the richness that comes from knowledge, understanding, and communion with people who are like us, sort of like us, or not at all like us.  We shut our eyes to self-reflection.

When the time comes for Mr. Simmons to pass from this world, I hope he and my dad run into each other in the Afterlife.  I'll bet they would share some great laughs over heavenly chicken paprikás and pastry.

I just hope, that whatever they talk about, they steer the conversation far from politics.  If my dad knew some of Simmons's politics, he would absolutely hate that guy.

This is Not Your Typical Holiday Greeting

My cat is a metabolic marvel.  My sweet kitty is nearly 13 years old.  Still playful and young at heart, the old gal is skinnier than she used to be.  She enjoys a healthy appetite, and her domesticated life pretty much revolves around Her Bowl, centered atop a rubber mat that proudly declares "Cats Rule!"  But she doesn't eat excessively.  I feed her no more than recommended for her petite frame, as indicated on the cans and bags.  And this is why I'm amazed by her metabolism.  I simply can't believe how much this cat poops. 

My cat is, in fact, named after her poop.  It wasn't intentional; it just worked out that way.  My precious feline companion was my first real pet.  She was a gift from my husband for my birthday in the first year of our marriage.  When we brought the little kitty home, I had no idea what to call her.  I had a friend who was a Wiccan priestess, and I remembered her telling me once that pets should name themselves.  So I decided that I would let the kitty name herself.  I didn't exactly how or when that would happen; but I figured that since she was the only cat in the house, there should be no basis for identity confusion, and therefore no reason to rush on calling her anything other than "Kitty."

Kitty spent the first 3 days in her new home under my bed.  She was terrified.  I was able to coax her out for short periods of time with one of those feather-on-a-stick toys.  But as soon as she tired of trying to catch the feather, she'd head back under the bed and remain there for hours.  I was worried about her.  Her Bowl was full of food, but she wouldn't touch it.  I had set up for her a brand new litter box, filled with delightfully scented fresh litter.  But she didn't go near it.  As far as I could tell, for the first several days after she moved in, she didn't go at all. 

Like a nervous young mother of a newborn, I became mildly obsessed with her litterbox.  I'd check it hourly to see if she'd used it.  And hour after hour, nothing.  I worried that she had a blockage.  That she was constipated.  That her tummy hurt.  That she would injure herself mortally in a passive-aggressive, anal-retentive act of rebellion over having been adopted by this couple of losers whom she clearly despised. 

My husband assured me that she was just fine - just needing some time to get used to her surroundings.  And of course, as he usually is about things like this, he was right.  By around Day Four, Kitty emerged from her Under-Bed sanctuary, and started exploring our apartment, which included sampling the fare in Her Bowl.  I continued to check her box for deposits, and for another day or so, I continued to walk away disappointed.

Finally, one morning, I checked her box, and to my joy, I discovered one tiny little poop ball.  As I scooped it out, Kitty stood by and watched me.  I wanted to encourage her good excretory behavior, so I praised her enthusiastically, saying in an annoying baby-talkie voice, "What a good little girl you are, Kitty!  You finally left Mama a little nugget!"  Meow.  "Yes! My sweet girl finally dropped us a little nugget!"  Meow, meow.  "You're talking to me!  You must be happy too!  I'll bet your tummy feels better now!  Eat some more so you can give us another nugget."  Meow. 

I was finally starting to relax and have fun with my new kitty friend.  As I prattled on excitedly about her poop nugget, Kitty rubbed her head on me, and meowed.  ". . .nugget."  Meow.  "nugget?"  Meow, meow.  "Oh, I get it!  Nugget!  Your name is Nugget!"  Meow, meow, meowww. . .

And that is how Miss Nugget P. Nuggbert, a.k.a. "Nuggie" came to name herself after feces.  And from that day forward, Nuggie was the productive little metabolizer that she continues to be today. 

In her senior years, Nuggie has become rather curmudgeonly, with lots of opinions, including critical opinions regarding the state of her litter box.  So to prevent her from taking it upon herself to find more appealing facilities among the stored items in the basement, I scoop Nuggie's box multiple times a day, whenever I can.  There is always poop to scoop.

Today, I had an Inattentive Poster Girl morning, the likes of which I had not experienced for months.  It started when my alarm when off, and I didn't know where I was.  Then, I couldn't figure out how to turn off my alarm - the same alarm that blares at me every single morning just before I turn it off.  Somehow I managed to get my kids ready for the school bus in time.  But moments after they left, I wondered why the house was so quiet, and I looked around for my little boy.  Oh, riiiight.  He just got on the school bus. 

It was at that point that I decided to head to the basement for the morning ritual of scooping out the litter boxes, which were no doubt needing some attention by now. (As a good operations manager, I've recently brought in a second box to handle heavy production demands).  I walked down the steps carefully so as not to fall, as I was still feeling a bit out of sorts.  Once at the bottom of the steps, I grabbed a plastic poop bag, glanced around, and . . .

...Ooooh, christmas lights!!

I grabbed the lights from on top of the box sitting next to the steps, and turned to head back upstairs.  As I climbed the steps, I considered options for where I could hang them.  I still had to get my shower in before work, so I was going to have to move quickly on these lights.  For some weird reason, I had a plastic bag in my hand, so I dropped that to free my hands for light hanging, which I would do just as soon as I took a few big gulps of coffee. 

"Look what I found!  Where should I hang them?"  I asked my husband.  "Wherever you want," he replied agreeably.  "You can put them up over here, or up there, or up there across the cabinets."

Like a woman possessed by a low-budget Martha Stewart, I grabbed a kitchen chair and dragged it over to the cupboards so I could stand on it and festoon the cabinets with the long string of pretty twinkly lights.  I couldn't quite reach, even standing on the chair. (FYI, IPG is super short; not as short as Snookie - but short.)  I struggled to reach the top of the cupboards and drape the lights up there.  As soon as I managed to land the lights on the end of the row of cupboards and try to start draping them across, the lights would fall down.  And then I would try again. . .and again, failing to achieve my goal each time.  I saw no reason to. . .oh, I don't know. . .try a different method.  This one was perfect.  I just needed to try. . .ugh. . .ugh. . harder. . .one. . .more. . .time.  Shit. 

With every failed attempt, I became more and more determined.  These lights HAD to go up.  Now.  Before my shower.  Before I could go to work.  I wanted my house to be pretty and festive and illuminated.  I wanted my children to come home from school and experience a joyous surprise of beautiful lights.  I just wanted. . .nope, needed. . .these lights to happen.

In my house, we refer to this sort of thing as my "buffoonery."  I was Lucy and Ethel all rolled into one.  Any casual observer could have pointed out that there was no way in hell those lights were getting up there like that unless I suddenly acquired the wingspan of a California Condor.  Luckily, Inattentive Poster Girl is smart, and she would figure this out. . .eventually.

"Honey! Come help me put these lights up here!" I called to my husband.  He walked into the kitchen chuckling.  He mumbled something about "buffoonery."  I don't know what he was talking about.  In any event, my White Knight - much taller, handier, and more coordinated than me - graciously took the tangled lights from my sweaty tense hands, and like a competent foreman, took over the job, instructing me on my part.  As he reached up and placed the lights, my husband commented, "You know, this really isn't the time to be doing this."  Low-Budget-Martha-Bot turned to him slowly, and replied in monotone, "This is exactly the time to be doing this."

Thanks to my adept husband of normal height, the job was completed within a minute or two after that.  I stood back to admire the lights.  I smiled and started breathing again, inhaling deeply.  Along with much needed oxygen, composure began to flow through me once again. 

It was then that I realized what had just happened.  Inattentive Poster Girl, joined by her identical twin, Hyperactive Poster Girl, and their mutual best friends, Hyperfocusing Chick and Impulsive Lady, just had a raucous party in my head.  A raucous decorating party, to be exact.  And now. . . poof. . .it was over. 

"Jeez," I said, looking at the clock.  "I have to get ready to go to work.  I'm late."  I explained to my husband that I was having a super duper IPG morning.  Now reading news on the Internet, my hubby replied without looking up, "No kidding.  You'd better take your pill."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," I chuckled as I started to head for the upstairs to get ready.  What should I wear?  Oh, I know!  I'll wear. . .

. . . POOOOP!!

The poop!  I forgot all about the poop!  I hurried down to the basement to scoop poop.  Whew!  I'm not too late - the poop is still there. Not only was the poop still there, patiently waiting to be scooped, but my little girl was standing by, waiting for me to get out of the way so she could replace what I just removed.  Good girl.  As my dad used to say, "Everyone needs to have a profession."

By the time I made it into my car to drive to work, I was grinning from ear to ear.  What started off as a horrible morning turned out to be a happy one.  My home became a little brighter; I enjoyed a few laughs, some companionship, and a little sense of accomplishment; and I knew that my joy would pass to my children - even if only for a brief moment - when they saw the beautiful new lights.  I felt refreshed and hopeful, ready to take on the day.

As I drove down the highway, I tried to make sense of my morning.  While I pondered, a verse from the Gospel of Matthew came to mind:  So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. (Mathew 6:34).  I love this passage.  It's one of the few I know and invoke often because it is so relevant to the human experience, in all its facets.

Like now, it kinda reminds me of poop.  As distasteful and unpleasant as it can be, poop is an inevitable byproduct of life.  There's not much point in getting all twisted up about poop. You can scoop and scoop like crazy; but tomorrow will bring its own poop anyway.  And if you have a cat like Nugget, tomorrow is always just a couple of hours away. 

So, why knock yourself out?  Drop the plastic baggie for a little while and put up some Christmas lights.

And, as I continued down the Interstate toward my office, I was further reminded of Advent, the days of waiting and anticipation before Christmas that began a few days ago.  (I'm reminded of lots of random stuff while I drive.) 

In case you haven't noticed, I love a metaphor.  I decided that my morning buffoonery would be my personal metaphor for what the season of Advent is about - focusing our hearts and minds on the Light to come.  Setting aside the darkness of tedium and fear to make room for joy and hope.  To prepare a Manger in which Love is born. 

To all of you, I wish you an abundance of Light this season and always.  I hope your worries and poop will be small and managable.  I hope the Spirit moves you to hang your lights, kindle your menorahs, and share your light with others.  Most of all, I wish you. . .

Peace and Blessings

Getting Caught With Your Pants Down, and Other ADHD Fashion "Don'ts"

A few days ago, my son was talking with me and my husband about bullying.  "Mom, were you ever bullied in school?" my boy asked.  "Well, I can remember one girl who used to pick on me sometimes, but I wouldn't say I was 'bullied' really."  Then my husband chimed in with, "Your mom was the bully."  He was joking, of course, but with his dead-pan affect, sometimes it's hard to tell, especially for our 10-year-old son.  So now I had to convince Josh that I was not, in fact, a bully.  "I was a nice kid; I never bullied anyone."  I assured my son.

And that was essentially true.  But this conversation got me thinking about my childhood, trying to remember if there were any times that I was particularly mean to anyone.  Honestly, I couldn't remember any such times.  Sure, I gossipped and sometimes made comments to my friends about other kids.  But I never had any desire to intentionally hurt anyone.  I could think of only one occasion when I directly caused a classmate some embarrassment, but it wasn't mean-spirited, for whatever that was worth.

It was in the fourth grade.  My class was preparing to go to gym.  The protocol was that we all lined up and walked to the restrooms and went into the gender-appropriate one to change into our gym clothes.  Once we were done changing, we lined up in the hall again, and walked single-file to the gym.  On this particular occasion, I had finished changing and was standing in line with a small group of other kids, waiting for the rest of the kids to finish changing.  I happened to be facing the boys' restroom door when one of my classmates, Stevie, walked out of the restroom and headed toward our line.

I was the only one who noticed that Stevie had apparently taken his pants off, but forgot to put his shorts on.  He was walking toward the line with his shorts in his hands, wearing a t-shirt and little-boy briefs. 

All I meant to do was to alert him to his situation, as he was clearly unaware.  I meant to be helpful.  But, of course, I had a bit of an impulse problem - plus, I was only 9 - so instead of discretely whispering to him that he had forgotten something, I abruptly pointed at him and loudly announced, "Oh, my god! You're not wearing any pants!" Stevie looked down, looked up, and made a funny "Mr. Bill" face that I will never forget.  Then he did an about-face and ran back into the restroom.

Of course, the kids all laughed.  Luckily, Stevie was a very good sport about the situation, and didn't seem too upset.  We were friends then, and continued to be friends.  But I know he was embarrassed, and I felt bad about it.  Over the years, I ribbed him a few times about that incident.  Several decades later, I sincerely hope that the damage I had done was minimal.

As I look back on that day now, the saying "There but for the grace of God go I" comes to mind.  Given my attention and organizational problems, and downright scatterbrainedness, it's nothing short of a miracle that I have never shown up to class or at the office pantsless.

On the other hand, I've gone many an entire workday with my shirt inside out.  I've given folks a couple of eye-fulls thanks to a few blouse buttons that I didn't know were undone.  I've given presentations while wearing awful blue polyester high-waters coupled with scuffed brown loafers.  And then there were the food stains.  More times than I care to remember, I'd come home from work, and discover that there was some large obvious stain on the front of my shirt, presumably from something I dropped at lunch without ever noticing. 

In short, I've been a mess.  Not always, but often enough to brutally shatter my dreams of ever winning the trophy in the category of "Best Dressed."

Like any girl - now woman - I've always wanted to be pretty.  If it would have been possible to have someone wave a magic wand over me and transform me into a well-put-together graceful fashionista, I would have welcomed that.  But alas, no fairy godmother has ever shown up to dress me for the ball.  And for whatever reason, the details of my personal appearance have often escaped me.  It wasn't that I didn't care so much, it's just that my ability to attend and focus has always been limited, and my brain has generally chosen to extend those resources outward. 

Low self-esteem probably played a role in that.  Generally speaking, I've always found it more important to take care of others before I take care of myself.  If we were both on a plane and the cabin pressure suddenly dropped, you would want me sitting next to you.  But I'm not altruistic.  It's true that I care deeply for my friends and family, but I think the bigger issue was that I have always been overwhelmed by all the things that require my attention; and somewhere along the line - probably a long, long time ago, for reasons I will soon begin exploring with Dr. R. - I decided that I was less deserving of attention than others, especially when attention was in short supply, like in my own brain.

As a busy working mom with limited financial resources, I've been able to rationalize my inattention to appearance quite nicely.  I'm too busy.  I don't have money to waste on "foolishness" (like clothes from this century).  I'm not - I repeat - NOT "superficial" like other people ("other people," as in people who don't go to work looking like hobos).  Yep, I've worked it out quite satisfactorily in my own mind.

My husband is probably the ONLY man in the world who has to order his wife to go out and buy clothes.  It drives him crazy.  I'd never enjoyed browsing the way so many women do.  If I were to ever commit a violent crime and the judge wanted to throw the book at me and make me really pay for what I've done, she would sentence me to a week-long museum bus tour.  Walking around just looking at stuff has always been torture for me.

I recognize now that my disinterest in shopping, and the like, was entirely ADHD-related.  Browsing and shopping in a clothes store involve attention to detail, focus, self-regulation, and decision making.  And if you happen to be a hyperactive sort who races through life, you don't really have time for such nonsense, when you know you have to get back to the important business of mindless staring and fidgeting.

Happily, as with many of my ADHD-related quirks, medication seems to be helping.  Without really meaning to, I find myself taking  more time getting dressed, making sure that everything that is supposed to be fastened is.  I'm noticing more when clothing items have spots on them, or when they should be loaded aboard a time machine and swiftly sent back to 1987.  I recently went through my closet and either threw out or gave away about 70% of my clothes, making my closet much neater, and reducing the hideousness of my wardrobe by at least 47%. 

But the absolute best part is that I've noticed that I'm starting to actually enjoy the simple pleasure of looking at beautiful things.  Sitting at home with my hubby, browsing for discounted designer clothes on the Internet is actually quite nice.  I'm noticing that I have tastes and subtle preferences.  I pick up on small details that influence whether or not I would consider something pretty.  I'm more willing to take a risk and choose a clothing item that is unconventional, at least for me, just because it's fun!  I'm starting to pay a little attention to myself; yet the world, surprisingly enough, isn't collapsing around me because of it.

So as I reflect upon young Stevie in his little tidy whities, and whether or not I scarred him for life, I am once again full of gratitude.  I am thankful for my husband - a man with curiously good taste and an eye for detail - for not being a tight wad and for making me buy things for myself.  I am thankful for good friends for ever-so-gently pointing out to me the piece of lettuce caught in my hair, the toilet paper stuck to my shoe, and the eyelash-that's-not-actually-an-eyelash on my cheek. 

And I am eternally grateful that I have never experienced the humiliation of having someone in a boardroom stand up, point at me, and shout, "Oh my god!  Your skirt is shoved into the back of your panty hose!"  Thanks to the fine people at DuraMed Pharmaceuticals, the makers of Adderall XR, I hope I never will.

I Hope the Feds Never Catch Up with Me

I confess - I've been running a covert money-laundering operation in my basement for years. 

I've laundered many, many dollar bills, the occasional five spot, and a bunch of loose change.  I laundered a check once, and my debit card a few times.

. . .Then there were the Chapsticks, a handful of cigarrette lighters, several packs of gum, and countless important receipts.  Yep, it's true.  For years, if there was something that I absent-mindedly jammed into my pocket, it probably got laundered. 

Luckily, I never laundered lipstick.  Red schmears all over my husband's white gym socks would have been tough to explain away.  My cover would have been completely blown.

Despite my best efforts to operate clandestinely, my tendency to throw currency and financial records into the machine with my delicates is one of those dirty little ADHD secrets that apparently wasn't much of a secret to The All-Knowing-All-Seeing Eyes-In-The-Back-Of-Her-Head One.  Yes, my mother.

The other day, my 81-year-old mom was visiting me and the kids.  My mom has never used a computer in her life.  Whenever anyone points her to something available on the Internet, my mother - in her best English-As-A-Second-Language - defiantly announces, like a recovering cocaine addict, that she is "NOT on lines."  So when my mom wanted some information about one of her credit accounts, I - like the good daughter that I am - dutifully offered to look it up for her.  All I would need is her credit card.  The look of horror that came across her face was unmistakable.  "You need the card?" she asked.  "Yep, just give me the card so I can get the number off of it."

My mom thought for a moment, then slowly produced the credit card from her purse.  She handed it to me languidly, not taking her eyes off of the card during the transfer.  She looked sad - as though she believed she might never see that piece of plastic again.

I took the card from her and cheerfully turned to the computer.  However, as always happens when I try to do. . .anything, my kids started screaming at me.  The little one needed chocolate milk, a new Spongebob episode, and a left sock with no holes in it. . .all at the same time.  Meanwhile, the 10-year-old had launched into a loud soapbox rant about how mean I am because we won't buy him an iPhone.  My mother, never one to turn down an opportunity to argue passionately with small children, joined the ruckus, contending vehemently on my behalf, that I am "not mean."

As mayhem erupted, it became clear that I would not be able to go online right then to look anything up.  I would not have known how to Google my own name in that chaos.  I would have to do this later.  But I had this credit card that I didn't want to lose track of.  So I  - you guessed it - shoved it into my pants pocket.

In the midst of the melee between the elderly and the prepubescent, I was startled when my mother let out a blood-curdling shriek.  "Noooooooo!!!" 

You would have thought that I was just about to toss a baby out of a window.  Annoyed, I responded, "What, no!" 

"Don't put dat een your pocket!" Mom cried.  "You'll vaaawwsh it!!!"

I'll vaaawwsh it?  No, I won't!  Why do you think that?  That's ridiculous?  Who would do that?! How do you know?  Who told you??  I need names!

"Mom, mom," I chuckled condescendingly.  "Mom, I'm not going to wash it.  I know that it's in my pocket; I'm just putting it here so that I won't lose it until I can get back to business."  Then I laughed, "Y'know, if you folks weren't always yelling and ordering me around, I might actually be able to hear myself think for a minute and keep track of what I'm doing."

And there it is.  I may as well have announced, "I thought I had ADHD, but as it turns out, YOU PEOPLE ARE JUST ANNOYING!!!"

Mom laughed and agreed.  "Okay, okay.  I trust you." 

The truth is, I do have ADHD.  And my mom was right to be concerned.  But it's also true that my mom and my kids - as lovable as they are - are horribly annoying and stressful; and when we are in a group, my brain's CEO hangs out the "Gone Fishin'" sign, and I am often reduced to being a discombobulated idiot. 

Which highlights something very, very important.  I need time to think.  I've never made it a priority to demand time and space to think about what I need and what others need from me.  While I've idled away hundreds - maybe thousands - of hours over many years anxiously perseverating, that is not the same thing as constructive thought.  The kind of thought that allows you to actually remember you have a credit card in your pocket before you throw the whole mess in the wash.  That's one of the pitfalls of ADHD - it's hard to decelerate, turn down the head noise, and just think. 

But that is what I did after I calmed my mother down.  In an unusual move, I grabbed a notebook and escaped my noisy children and went out to the garage.  I stood there for 5 minutes or so, thinking about what I had to do.  I took some notes and jotted down a short shopping list.  I breathed deeply.  Then I returned to the livingroom (which had now become a boxing ring).  I got on the computer and looked up the information my mom needed, and proudly handed back her card.  And then we laughed.

As I recalled these events later in the day, I wondered why it was that my mom was so worried that I would wash her card, of all things.  After all, there are so many ways to lose a credit card.  I know from experience.  I don't think Mom has ever seen me launder non-clothing items.  We've never talked about it. 

And then it hit me.  I was a chatty, annoying, demanding kid.  My dad was a chatty, annoying, demanding husband.  When we were around, my 40-something-year-old mom was running around in seventeen different directions at once.  And I'm guessing, she was running her own money-laundering operation. 

She was trying to save me from myself.  I'm grateful.  I just wish she'd be quieter about it. 

My mom probably doesn't launder money any more, now that she's 81 and my dad is gone, and her kids are grown.  She's got plenty of time and space to think about what's in her pockets, and anything else she might want to think about.  So, I suppose if she wants to follow me around and help me remember to check my pockets, I'll let her; and I'll be grateful for the blessing of having my mom still in my life, and for her still having the clarity of mind to help me not wash her credit card.  Maybe when I'm 81, I'll be able to return the favor for my little inattentive/hyperactive Josh.

Meanwhile, I'll make it a point to take time out for some contemplation and hide in the garage once in awhile.  The feds will never find me there.

Day Fourteen (but who's counting?) - ADHD: Disorder or Dimension?

Yep, I'll admit it - I like me some pot.  The giggles, the munchies, the amazingly intelligent high-level ideas it helps to generate (heh-heh). . .good, clean fun, notwithstanding the irrational illegality of it.  But I won't digress into a soapbox rant here. (Legalize it!!! Okay, I'm done now.) 

One of the things I've always enjoyed most about weed is its magical power to slow time.  Alright, it's not really magic (or is it?); and it's not really slowing time, per se (or is it?), but who really knows what "time" is anyway?  (I'm sure if you ask a bunch of stoners, however, they'll be happy to tell you what "time" is - and it will be brilliant!)

What I'm talking about here is, of course, subjective time deceleration - the perception or feeling that time is passing more slowly than usual. 

The subjective acceleration and deceleration of time is a phenomenon that everyone experiences.  In our culture, this notion is reflected in quaint sayings such as "time flies when you're having fun," and conversely, "a watched pot never boils."  Well, for me, time has always flown, whether or not I was having fun.  Watched pots would boil over in nanoseconds, with no time to even think about preparing to add the spaghetti. 

For as long as I can remember, I'd been in a constant race against the clock, always with the sense that there wasn't enough time, and everything that had to be done took too long.  I was a pathological clock watcher who would peek at the clock seemingly every couple of seconds.  But miraculously every second that I looked at the clock, ten minutes would have passed.  Or a half hour. Or a day. 

As early as my young childhood, I was acutely aware - and scared  - of my mortality because even if I would live to be 120 years old, in my mind (and experience), that century plus would pass in a flash.  And if I didn't proactively race against that passage of time, I would miss it all.

In every aspect of my life, I rushed through tasks and activities to avoid consuming too much time; or, conversely, I neglected to complete projects or engage in activities under the premise that there just wasn't enough time for it. 

As I reflect back, I am aware of the tragic irony of all the hours, months, and probably years that I spent doing nothing but staring, ruminating, and agonizing over how little time I had.  My dad, I recall, lived his life the same way.  And when he died suddenly and unexpectedly at the age of 65, what he feared most happened:  he ran out of time and had very little to show for it.

I discovered marijuana during grad school.  (Isn't that amazing - how I, of all people, discovered marijuana??  I know - who would have thought!  You're welcome!!)  I remember the evening well.  A neighbor in my apartment building called me to tell me about the "present" her brother had mailed her from out of state, and would I like to come over and part take.  I was feeling adventurous, so I went.  I'd been drunk before - I thought it would be like that.  Much to my pleasant surprise and delight, it wasn't anything like being drunk.  It was awesome.  I had a great time watching "Dracula" and chatting with my neighbor.  I was relaxed and cheerful, and I felt like I didn't want the evening to end.  Well, the evening of course did eventually end, as all evenings do.  But not for a really long time!  Although I was having fun, time actually didn't fly for a change.  It slowed down so much there were points where I thought it had stopped, which was perfectly fine by me. 

The effect of enabling me to actually slow down and savor a pleasant experience became one of the main reasons I would return to my. . .er. . .discovery again and again after that.  Eventually, I learned to take practical advantage of this effect by using it to help me study.  The only semester during which I actually sat down and studied for any length of objectively-measurable time, I did it stoned.  And I did really well that semester, come to think of it.

Despite that, I recognized that walking around high all the time would certainly have its drawbacks, so I didn't. . .and I don't.  Time would continue to race ahead, and I would just have to do my damnedest to beat it there. . .wherever "there" might be. 

As it turns out, "there" ended up being the Shopko pharmacy where I consumed my very first Adderall capsule.  I took it at one in the afternoon.  I would know this, of course, because there was a clock on the wall.  And if there was a clock on the wall, I was staring at it.

As I have already shared, the medication took effect quickly and profoundly, creating noticeable changes right away.  I had a great afternoon.  By bed time that evening, I was so happy and hopeful that it felt like being out in beautiful bright sunshine.  Wait.  Whoa, what's going on here?  That's actually sunshine.  Have we catapulted out of orbit?!  Why is the sun shining at 10:30 at night?  What?!  It's only 5:30 in the afternoon???  How can that be?

Oh, it be.  If I had to rank all the wonderful changes medication has brought about, by far the most significant  and far-reaching one has been a complete alteration of my perception of time.  Time has slowed down.  And not just for a few precious hours until the THC wears off.  But all day, every day that I take my pill.  The hours don't just vanish as though they never were.  And I wouldn't really even know if they did because, strangely, I don't have the urge to watch the clock.  When I do peek at the clock, I'm amazed to discover that I still have time.

On the flip side, tasks that used to feel like they would take forever have become remarkably manageable. . .and quickly taken care of.  That phenomenon remains a bit of a mystery to me, leading me to question whether I really have a neurological problem or whether I simply reside alone in some quantim plane, apart from everyone else. 

But perhaps I'm not alone.  In my casual Internet research of ADHD, I came across a little article that proposes that a faulty perception of time may lie at the heart of the hyperactivity component of ADHD.  Although this suggestion makes a great deal of sense, given my personal experience, it's not nearly as sexy as the thought of occupying my own dimension.  But I'll take sanity over sexy at this point and keep taking my pills so I can live in this world with everyone else.

As an aside, I was also interested to learn recently that there are some folks out there who support the use of medical marijuana as an alternative treatment for ADHD.  Personally, I wouldn't be interested in going that route; but given my own experience, I'm curious if it isn't the alteration of time perception that makes the treatment effective, if in fact, it is an effective treatment. 

In any event, I find the whole thing captivating.  I've always been interested in time - what it is, even if it is.  When I was in college, I started reading what I'm sure was a fascinating book on the topic of time.  But the chapters were very long and the font was so tiny, that I couldn't get through more than a few pages.  I'm thinking that perhaps I'll try to track that book down and take another look at it. . .now that I have all this extra time on my hands.

Day Three - Sins of the Father

As excited, happy, and hopeful that I am now that I'm on the road to a more centered, productive, and healthy me, it's a little bittersweet. I have a lot of regret for what could have been had I only known earlier in my life that I had this problem. I regret having been so hard on myself, and for many of the choices that I made as a result of my shaky self-esteem.  I regret that I didn't get nearly as much out of my Cadillac education that I could have if only I had been able to keep my ass in a chair long enough to study.  I regret spending so much time regretting things.

ADHD affects the way your brain works and hence how you function in the most mundane ways. The symptoms of ADHD impact whether or not you can ever be a "morning person;" how much you talk; your level of motivation to complete little tasks and big projects; your ability to absorb, retain, and process information; whether or not you can ever make it to work on time.  In other words, it effectively shapes who you are in the world, or. . .who you seem to be.

What I now realize, about myself at least, is that you don't have any frame of reference to evaluate how your brain functions. If you happen to be someone who suffers from the effects of ADHD, and have been that way for as long as you can remember from childhood, you have no reason to know that there is something amiss that is beyond your control. You may be very well aware of your "shortcomings." But you attribute them to boredom, laziness, impatience, etc. - in other words, situational emotional states or your "personality." 

Very likely, you've been told throughout your life by people who love you (and people who don't) that you just need try harder, pay attention better, worry less, study more, stop arguing, quit being so lazy or self-centered, buy a day planner, settle down, get a clue. . . .  You've been told to do a lot of things that most people take for granted are within their control.  But you're not most people.  And you haven't figured that out yet.  You just know that you try as hard as you can to do all these things, and you can't.  To the extent that you can, it takes Herculean effort and drains you emotionally and even physically.  Without meaning to, you disappoint, hurt, irritate, and anger people, especially yourself.  And you might just decide that it's because you're a "bad" person.

Admittedly, I can only speak for myself - based on my own experience - but I'm of the opinion that if you don't know you have ADD/ADHD, there is no way to know you have ADD/ADHD. Unless, that is, you are a reasonably self-reflective person and happen upon revealing information that offers that elusive frame of reference for self-evaluation.

For me, that information came in the form of my beloved child.  I'm the proud mom of two amazing boys.  My kids are nearly six years apart in age, so I had a lot of time to get to know and bond with my eldest as an "only child."  "Joshua" takes after both of his parents in various ways, as all kids do.  But if one of my kids can be considered my "mini-me," it's Josh.  Josh has always been an engaging, smart, funny, and social child.  Ever since he was an infant, I could relate to him and empathize with him.  I "got" him and all his quirks.  Like any proud parent, I delighted in watching him, over his early years, develop positive traits that reminded me of myself. 

But, of course, we all have faults and shortcomings, and though I saw my boy growing up into who I would consider a wonderful little person, I also saw other things.  Things that pained me.  Josh was impatient, pushy.  He had no respect for boundaries.  He was easily bored and couldn't stay on task.  He was overly emotionally sensitive and quick to anger and frustration.  Yes, it pained me immensely.  Not because I judged him.  I love him with all my heart and will always think he's the bees knees, no matter what.  No, it hurt me to see these traits develop in him because they mirrored me.  And I suffered because of these traits.  I don't want my children to suffer.  I desperately wanted Josh to be better than me.

Shortly after Josh started school, he began suffering from anxiety and some other issues that his dad I and weren't really equipped to deal with effectively.  Josh's pediatrician recommended that I take him to see a psychologist.  Long story short, Josh was diagnosed with a rather prounounced case of ADHD. 

I was skeptical at first.  I had believed, like many people do I think, that ADHD - while a legitimate diagnosis for some - was overused as an excuse to sedate perfectly normal children who were too much of a handful for their inept parents.  I didn't get it.  But I was willing to listen.  Something inside me was telling me that I needed to keep an open mind for Josh's sake.

Over the next several months, I spent a lot of time researching ADHD, and grew satisfied that this was an appropriate diagnosis for my son.  I spent a lot of time thinking about my little boy - who he was, what he was like.  He reminded me so much of my dad.  My wonderful, funny, brilliant, cute, interesting, engaging dad.  God, I miss my dad. 

My dad died unexpectedly when Josh was a baby, probably the single most painful thing in my life to date.  My dad so looked forward to grandchildren, and he and Josh would have been two peas in a pod. 

As I thought about my dad in those days, I remembered things about him, lots of frustrating things, actually.  He was constantly talking to himself.  From childhood through adulthood, I would have to yell at him to get his attention when I tried to tell him something because he was conversing silently with someone in his own head.  I'd know this because his lips were moving. 

Dad never came to school functions.  He couldn't sit through them.  He couldn't sit through anything that wasn't completely interesting to him.  Although he was a generous and compassionate man, he could be horribly self-centered and oblivious to the needs of others.

My dad had an amazing mind.  My dad - an immigrant - was a factory worker with only an 8th-grade education.  Yet, he was one of the most intellectually gifted people I have ever known, though I never saw him read a book.  He could have easily matched wits with any of  my hoity-toity college professors any day of the week.  But he didn't know that about himself.

As I thought about my dad and my son, I remembered how fragile my dad's self-esteem was.  I remember him saying to me one day when I was an undergrad, "Daughter, work hard.  Study hard.  Don't be lazy like your old dad.  You pay attention to your teachers.  I could never pay attention to my teachers.  I was too impatient.  You know, your old man didn't want to be a factory worker.  But I never had the motivation to do anything else.  But you can be anything. . ."

At some point in the course of my research, I learned that ADHD is hereditary.  I recalled a conversation that I had with my mom once when I was a young adult.  My mom told me how she had watched a news show where they talked about this thing called, "ADD."  My mom, who was not particularly educated or worldly, had never heard of it.  But what she learned on this program struck a chord with her.  "I think your dad has that ADD thing."  At that time in my life, I had certainly heard about ADD/ADHD, but I didn't know anything about it.  "Naw," I said to her dismissively, "Dad doesn't have that.  That's something that kids get.  Dad's just impatient and bored."

That conversation came back to haunt me, more than a half-a-decade after my dad's death, as I reflected on my son, the similiarities between grandfather and grandson, and my growing knowledge about this insidious disorder.  A light bulb went off.  You were absolutely right, Mom.  Dad had ADHD. 

Though Dad had never been diagnosed, and never would be, I now knew the truth about him.  Dad, you were wonderful and brilliant and gifted.  I'm so sorry you never got to be the person you wanted to be.  I forgive you for not listening to me and for being annoying.  I understand that you did the best you could.  It wasn't your fault. . . .

Eventually, as I continued to think about these two guys, my "mini-me" and my "maxi-me," the light bulb finally went off.  (ADHD sometimes makes it hard to see what's right in front of your face.)  My son's struggles, my dad's struggles. . . were my struggles.  I was the middle-link in this genetic chain. 

After all these years, I now know that I'm not an inherently defective, bad person.  There is hope for me.

http://www.webmd.com/add-adhd/guide/adhd-causes
http://www.webmd.com/add-adhd/features/adhd-can-run-family

Day One

"So what took you so long to seek treatment?" asked my new psychiatrist. "I didn't know I had a medical problem. I thought I had character flaws," I responded dryly. Dr. K. nodded in that way that doctors do when a patient presents with something that piques their interest, like a suspicious mole. . .or a case of kuru. "Oh,you have a good sense of humor, I see."

Apparently not good enough to actually make her laugh. Instead of laughing at my joke (which wasn't so much a joke as it was a deeply painful admission), Dr. K. took her pen and noted it in my file. ". . .good sense of humor. . ." I was glad for that. I may never achieve my fantasy of becoming a revered author of wildly comical novels; but at least now my good sense of humor has been documented by a licensed professional. Take that, Guy-Who-Doesn't-Think-I'm-Nearly-As-Funny-As-I-Think-I-Am! Someone who is an expert in brains thinks I'm funny!Once we established the existence of my sense of humor, Dr. K. read through my file. "You definitely have ADHD. Did you take the TOVA [Test of Variables of Attention]?  Oh, here it is. . .what was your score? Hmmm. . .yes. . .quite pronounced." I just sat there nodding as she recited from my file. I considered interrupting her with an "I'm sorry, did you say something?" But I refrained because I figured that a psychiatrist who treats ADHD people regularly has probably heard that one already, at least a few thousand times.

As Dr. K. continued to review my file, I strained my eyes to read the notes, from across her desk, and upside down. I was curious to know whether Dr. R., the psychologist who evaluated and diagnosed me, wrote down the words "poster girl." I figured he probably hadn't because that would have been unprofessional. But what others regard as unprofessional, I often find hilarious and evidence of a good sense of humor. (Dr. R., please consider your good sense of humor documented.)At my first appointment with Dr. R.--during which I filled out questionnaries and regaled him with family history replete with people who talked to themselves, and tales of extreme scatterbrainedness--Dr. R., looked up at me from his notes at one point and said, "You might just be the poster girl for ADHD." (Oh, Dr. R., go on. I bet you say that to all the inattentive ladies.)

Huzzah! Huzzah! Yes, please make me the poster girl! First of all, I've been feeling a little underappreciated these days - I could use a little recognition.

More importantly, a diagnosis of ADHD would answer so many questions. It would provide an explanation for the struggles I have experienced for 40-plus years - struggles that destroyed my self esteem and made my hopes and dreams of creative accomplishment seem like impossible fantasies. Struggles that made me feel like an imposter and a liar to anyone who actually was duped into believing I was competent. Struggles that threatened to end my marriage that I thought were all my fault for being a fat, lazy, defective, impatient, self-centered, stupid, unmotivated, and all-around gross person.

A diagnosis of ADHD would give me hope. It would mean that maybe I could take medicine. Maybe the medicine would help me, and the daily business of living wouldn't be so damned hard anymore. Maybe I could become the person I always wished I could be. . .

". . .The medicine won't change your brain," Dr. K. explained. "You'll still have your same brain. But it will wake up your brain, stimulate the inhibitory receptors and help alleviate your symptoms." I was excited. Yes, Yes, lets wake those inhibitory babies up; rise and shine, inhibitory receptors, who- or whatever the hell you are!

"So, Doctor, if I start taking the pills, how long will it be before I notice a difference. . .if they work, that is." "Oh, the medication works," Dr. K. assured me. "We know that it works. We might need to tweak your dosage, but you should notice a difference right away."

Alrighty then. . .what are you waiting for Doc?! Get your note pad out and start writing. I've got places to go, people to see, gee, I hope my hubby isn't trying to reach me because I forgot my phone at home, I'm due to get back to work, my boss is going to be pissed, I'm hungry, my back itches, did I put that load of wash in the dryer? where the fuck is my debit card, I saw a duck once. . .I'm sorry, did you say something?

God, I can't wait to get my hands on those pills. Please, Lord, let them work. My brain and body are exhausted. I'm desperate. I'm broken. I've tried as hard as I can. I can't do this anymore. Please let them work. . .

I left my appointment determined to stop at the very first pharmacy I saw. I barely drove a block before I came to Shopko. Yay! The pharmacist told me that it would take twenty minutes to fill my prescription. Twenty minutes! What, are you having it delivered in by stagecoach?! ADHD makes it very hard to wait for things.

After what seemed like an eternity, the nice lady handed me my pills, Adderall XR, 20mg. During that grueling twenty-minute wait, I grabbed a soda from the cooler so that I would have a beverage in hand with which to wash down my maiden pill at the first opportunity. (Did I mention the waiting problem?) The pharmacist looked at me a little cross-eyed as I cracked open the auburn bottle and swallowed a capsule right there as she was still handing me my product papers and before I had even paid. Sorry, Lady, I got big plans. I don't have time for your delightful spiel today.

An hour or so later, back at the office, I prepared for a check-in meeting with one of the members of my staff.

Meetings have always been a bit of a challenge for me. Talking at meetings I could do. For hours. Nonstop. Just ask any of the members of my long-suffering gracious staff. As it turns out, I exhibit "verbal hyperactivity" as part of my condition. And here I thought I was charming and engaging. Oh, well. (I actually still think I am charming and engaging, but I understand that a little bit of that can go a long way.)

Listening, on the other hand has always been extremely difficult. I would mean to listen. I wanted to listen. I understand the theoretical importance of listening. I would try very hard. But I usually couldn't do it for very long. Too many stimuli all around me begging. . .screaming for my attention. There was a clock to watch, fingernails to pick, birds flying past the window, conversations from last night that I needed to rehash mentally and analyze. . .right then. But I would nod, and say "hmm" a lot. Occasionally write down a couple of words (or "notes") that were completely illegible and wouldn't mean anything to me later. I looked like I was listening and participating. But, in truth, I wasn't even there.

So here I was, preparing to go into a meeting. I noticed that I was starting to feel a tiny bit strange. I can't describe exactly what it was--kind of like the sensation you get after you've taken a decongestant. A little wonky. It's too soon, I thought. It must be my imagination.

Now in my meeting, sitting across from my assistant, I started to realize that, in fact, something was happening. The physical effects were obvious. My head started to tingle. I began to feel a strange chill run up and down my arms--a sensation that I've never experienced before. My tongue felt big. As I talked to my assistant, I found myself experiencing some difficulty talking. It's hard to describe it--my mouth would be trying to form words, but the words were not coming to mind at the same time. Speech and language were suddenly out of sync. All of a sudden, I had become the embodiment of a 1960's Japanese martial arts movie in which my mouth would physically shape words, but the words came fractions of a second after. I've been told--and however unkind the statement, it might be true--that my mouth works faster than my brain.

I was a little frightened. Was I having an allergic reaction? heart attack? A stroke?? I took a deep breath and in just a few moments, that sudden, initial fear of the unfamiliar subsided as I started to notice other things. . .wonderful things. I noticed that I was calmly seated in my chair. I wasn't fidgeting or looking at the clock every two seconds as if I had someplace else I needed to be. I was comfortable, for a change. No physical urge to wiggle around or leave the room. I just sat back in my chair and relaxed while I listened to my assistant express her concerns and ideas. Wait, did I just say, "I listened"?

Joy bubbled up in side me as I realized that I was listening to my colleague. She was talking, and I was hearing her. I understood what she was saying. I took notes that were actually legible and coherent. I felt no urge to interrupt her. I wasn't busy planning my next sentence as she uttered hers. I wasn't planning what I was going to make for dinner. I was there. With her. Listening.

Now, to be realistic, this wasn't the first time I've ever listened before. I hold multiple academic degrees from reputable institutions of higher learning. I'm a respected professional. I know to put the square pegs in the square holes and the round pegs in the round holes. By objective standards, I'm a reasonably accomplished person who couldn't have gone through life never having listened.

What made this moment remarkable was that it just happened. I didn't have to try. I didn't have to fight any urges or compulsions. My body didn't tense up. I didn't hold my breath as I often do. My brain didn't hurt at the end of it. Sitting in the meeting and listening to another human being talk felt as easy and natural as breathing. And this, I can say with all honesty, was the first time I can ever recall that being the case.