This is getting downright exciting! Of course, if you're NOT gonna be at the ocean this year, how about a countdown to NEXT year's beach retreat?

 Results of a major research study, released last week, show that adolescent girls with ADHD are more likely to attempt suicide and to inflict injury on themselves than non-ADHD girls of the same age.

The study, led by Stephen Hinshaw, PhD and published in the August edition of the online Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology, reports that these tendencies show up more often in girls diagnosed with primarily impulsive type ADHD. The majority of girls are diagnosed with combined type ADHD, which includes impulsivity as well as inattention, so many are at risk.

I am not surprised in the least. For years I have scoured medical journals and psychology websites for some evidence that ADHD produces a higher rate of suicide (or suicide attempts). I have found precious little research to support my suspicion that ADHD heralds a sobering proclivity to hopelessness. After years of attempting solutions that fail, some adults and children see no other way out but to take their own lives. I am sure they believe the world will be better off without them. I know I did.

Before I turned 30, I was contemptuous of people who flirted with suicide. I believed that they were weak and cowardly or that they were self-pitying, vying for attention. I was self-righteous right up to the day that an avalanche of events stole my optimism and I, too, crossed the line into suicidal thinking. It's not pretty, but there it is. It's happened more than once, I am embarrassed to tell you.

As with most research, the data stands alone, subject to interpretation. But Dr. Hinshaw has said many times that societal and peer pressure on adolescent and even elementary school girls, is so strong that it's almost impossible to avoid psychological damage. "At least one fourth of all U.S. teenage girls are suffering from self-mutilation, eating disorders, significant depression or serious consideration of suicide." (from Hinshaw's book The Triple Bind ©2009). Add ADHD into the mix and despair creeps in.

Don't think for a moment that this study doesn't apply to you because it was based on two groups of adolescent girls (ADHD and a control). My hunch is that the statistics would hold for ADHD adults, too. Research to prove it is a distant reality, though. I have casually surveyed groups of ADHD adults with ADHD about their close encounters with suicide. The completely unscientific ratio of those who have considered suicide vs those who have not is about 50-50. So not all ADHD adults are at risk. But some of us are.

Obviously I am still here, happy and healthy. There is a primal human lust for survival and I trusted it. But this new research on ADHD helps me remember those dark days in a diferent context. I may have been at the mercy of my undiagnosed ADHD. Would diagnosis and treatment have warded off the whispers of death? Perhaps.

Which makes it doubly important to treat your ADHD instead of hoping it will go away. It's vital to find a coach, a therapist, a non-judgment friend or a religious counselor who can muck around in your wild brain with you. It's important to take your medication if you choose that treatment. It's important to stay connected with other folks who understand from the inside out how it feels to have ADHD.

If you are in the crosshairs of several crises and your resilience has evaporated, know that you are not alone. You have an entire ADDiva community with whom to share your burden. We are here for you. Talk to us. We believe your life has value; there is a reason you are here on this planet at this time in this place.

You are not alone.

 Been on the road since Friday visiting family in Illinois which included attending my neice's wedding near Bloomington. Gorgeous, of course. Vineyards seem to be the "it' place to get married these days (who knew?).

In all the excitement of the ceremony, the reception and the morning after, I was feeling a little sad, for no apparent reason. After all, weddings are a GOOD thing. But I realized that I was back in my childhood environment. The flat Midwest corn fields are nostalgic for me (even when they are burned up by drought - awful). And I found myself in tears thinking about some vague events from years gone by.

So I took an early morning drive on the country roads (most of them 'hard roads' as we used to call roads with actual blacktop), feeling more than a little guilty about using fossil fuels for a joy ride. I realized as drove between those flat fields interrupted by little clumps of trees with small groups of buildings - house, barn, shed, grain elevator - that nothing had really changed in 40 years. Farmers were still worrying about rain. Kids were still swinging on rope swings. And hearts were still being expanded (as in weddings) and broken (as in divorces). 

There were both kinds of hearts at the wedding. Nick and Dorie, of course, were elated, even after spending the last 11 years together. Married is married. It's different.

My brother's newest girlfriend was suffering on the opposite end of the spectrum. Her ex was getting married to HIS new girlfriend the same day. Icky, even when they'd been separated for years.

And with my own son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter in attendance, it brought back my own semi-sweet memories of young love and divorce. I couldn't have fallen harder for my first husband and that's the truth. I suppose I should be over it 20+ after our final divorce, but it still pinches that life didn't turn out as we expected.

Ditto for life at home. My parents are older. My dad's heart that has survived many assaults over the years, is failing. My mom tells me the same story again and again. And I know that soon, very soon, death will lop off some of my dear family. 

So I think my nostalgia was intermingled with joy for Dorie and Nick, joy at spending some special time with little Lilly (who is a wonderful little three-year-old) and pre-mature sorrow for the life that 'once was" and the life that 'might have been."

There are a lot of family dynamics in play when I go home. They really don't know me at all. They think ADD coaching is trivial and unimportant. And by their measure (the amount of money I have in the bank), I'm not very successful. So why do I care? They think what they think. Yet I have this absurd little girl urge to do something that will please them, let them know that I'm OK before it's too late.

It's a weird feeling to go home again. On one hand, I am happy to be there, among people who have known me all my life - literally. And on the other hand, those same people know my failings. So while I love them beyond measure, I am also a tiny bit fearful that they will dredge up some awful truth about me that they think is important (and that i have tried to forget).

My overriding emotion is sorrow at my losses - those in the past and those upcoming. My instinct is to stay longer, try to hold on to what's left, to pin down that ethereal spirit we know as "Life." Yet what's ahead will happen without a push from me or a tug back on the reins from me. 

I'm rambling, I know. So what is it I want to say? That my tender heart get even more mushy when I'm here. That I feel vulnerable. That part of me yearns to go back to that young life of innocence and trust (which really wasn't quite so idyllic as I remember). And that my roots run deeper than the brittle corn stalks anchored in dusty soil.

This Illinois life is the foundation of who I am. And who I became. And yet, I am not this Illinois life any longer. That makes me happy...and sad. That's all.

Was it sensational?
Yes.
Was it luxurious?
Oh yes.
Was it one of the best days in my life?
You bet.

My trip to New York for the Next Generation Indie Book Awards (http://www NULL.indiebookawards NULL.com/awards NULL.php) reception was a once-in-a-lifetime thrill. And I savored every minute of it. A brief recap:

Victor and I arrived at RDU (Raleigh-Durham International Airport) at 12:30 am Monday morning due to stormy weather in Denver (we had been on a weekend trip to San Francisco to celebrate daughter Heather's birthday). But my plane to New York departed at 10:40 that morning! It was a too-short night - unpacking, repacking and driving to the airport less than eight hours later.

I arrived at chilly, rainy JFK a little earlier than expected and took a taxi to Midtown - I had a one-night reservation at the Plaza Hotel (http://www NULL.theplaza NULL.com/), where the awards ceremony would take place.The Plaza is directly across the street from Central Park - lots of landmarks on the ride into town.

When I checked in, the quite nice young man at the desk cordially informed me that I had been upgraded to a junior suite. I didn't argue and used my key in the elevator to access the exclusive 18th floor. When I opened the door, I was take aback…the room was stunning.

Living room with Queen Annechairs, leather topped desk, huge flat screen TV and a bedroom with an ornate headboard, high thread count sheets and three closets! (you can see my four-minute phone video above).

I had a couple of hours before the reception but I was starved - I'd had no time for breakfast. It was past lunchtime in the Palm Room, but they were serving afternoon tea-- MY FAVORITE! So I went to tea. So elegant. So tasty. So civilized!

Then I went back to the room and bought  a ticket to "Rock of Ages," one of the few Broadway shows that has a Monday night performance. A single ticket is a lot easier to find than two together! Curtain time was 8:00 pm so I had plenty of time since the reception ended at seven.

I took a shower, fixed my hair (I'd had my hair cut in San Francisco by a terrific stylist) and makeup and made my way downstairs to the reception.

At 5:02 there was a line across the Plaza lobby and up the marble stairs to the Rose Club. We waited 20 minutes to register and make our way upstairs. Then it was a mad crush. So many people (so many winners -- some First Prize, some Finalists, some spouses and friends). Champagne flowed but I didn't indulge - I didn't want to fall asleep during the show later that night.

Finally, the awards ceremony began and the three grand prize winners were announced and they each made a brief speech. The rest of us were lined up in order of our categories and prize. By the time they announced the Women's Issues category (next to last in alpha order) people were chattering so loudly, you couldn't even hear them announce the name of my book! Ah well, I took my place in line to receive my award and have my picture taken.

At seven o'clock we were still in line. At seven-ten we were still in line. At seven-fifteen, I finally reached the front of the line and was draped with a surprisingly heavy "gold" medal on a red-white-and-blue ribbon (ala Mark Spitz for those of you old enough to remember). I hugged Marilyn Allen, the literary agent I had met earlier in the evening and was congratulated by Catherine Goulet, the awards chairperson (left).

Then I took off like the proverbial bat out of an awards reception to do a lightning quick change of clothes on the 18th floor and back downstairs to find a taxi. Of course, it was the precise time of day when taxi drivers were changing shifts, so I waited and waited and waited for a taxi that was available.
Finally the doorman flagged down one of those bright yellow cars and we took off like the proverbial bat out of the Plaza Hotel, screeching from one red light to another. We made it in record time to the Helen Hayes Theater (amazing how fast those taxis move in a pinch).

OMG. The line to get in was a block long, but that line was for people with tickets. The Will Call line was shorter. Much shorter. Like…no line at all. I picked up my ticket and walked in ahead of everyone else (that really wasn't fair, but I didn't make the rules).

The first half of the show was fair to middling. The second half was terrific and funny. By the end, we were all singing and dancing like it was a rock concert as "We Built This City on Rock and Roll" echoed through the building.

Then came the true test of my New York experience. I actually hailed a taxi and IT STOPPED TO PICK ME UP! So many times, the drivers whiz on by, but this was MY DAY … the first driver stopped and I made it back to the Plaza, music still ringing in my ears.

By that time, I was hungry again. So at 11 pm I ordered room service -- the Plaza chopped salad and iced tea. And took pictures of my medal nestled next to the food (OK I know it was hokey but I was a small town girl in the big city junior suite!).

When I finally fell into bed (neatly turned down by my private butler with my slippers beside my bed on a linen towel and a bottle of Fiji water on the bedside table) I was deliciously tired and happy.

In the morning, I took a bubble bath in the soaker tub, got dressed and said goodbye to my New York adventure. But what to do with the medal? I didn't want to crush the ribbon. So I put it in the laundry envelope from the Plaza to get through security at the airport. After that I wore it around my neck.

Only one person wanted to know what it meant - the girl behind the counter of the gift shop back at RDU. She even asked for my autograph. I signed my business card for her …

And that is the not-so-brief highlight of my book award and Plaza indulgence. Everyone should do it at least once!