Some ADHD "experts" are quite good at giving advice and offering solutions to ADD-ish issues. Many of them, however, are loath to reveal their own challenges. Not me. I’m right out there with my mishaps, no matter how embarrassing.
To wit:
I just took the door off the ADDiva-mobile this morning. By running into my other, older car.
Oh no.
You know that sickening sound of metal crushing metal? That’s what I experienced as I backed out of the garage on the way (late of course) to an all day women’s Soul Circles event with one of my favorite gurus, Anita. It was a lovely sunny day, a crisp wind out of the north. And I needed this renewal time. I was overdue.
In fact, I was thinking just that when I put the Prius in reverse and backed up slowly. I heard a little thump and realized – uh oh – I had nudged my black Lexus SUV. Panicked, and hoping that there was no damage, I opened the driver’s side door to take a peek, then started to pull forward.
Unfortunately, the car was still in reverse. The Prius hit the Lexus even harder. Panicked even more, I desperately hit the brake, harder and harder.
Unfortunately, it was the accelerator pedal under my foot. I was actually accelerating backwards, accelerating the damage to both cars. "No, no no NO!" I was screaming at myself, at the world, at the cars.
When I finally took my foot off the pedal/accelerator/supposed-to-be-brake the door to the Prius was bent completely backwards and rested on the front fender. I almost cried, but I was in shock.
Obviously, I couldn’t get out the driver’s side door — there was a black car blocking the opening. So I climbed over the passenger seat and ran in to tell Victor. A few tears gathered, but I couldn’t make them fall.
"I’m not going to the women’s day after all," I said, slamming the kitchen door. "I just wrecked the Prius AND the Lexus."
Victor couldn’t have been more gentle. He didn’t get mad. He didn’t tell me how dumb it was to hit my own car WITH my own car. He just said: "You didn’t do it on purpose, sweetie."
The long and short of the rest of the story is that I called a friend who managed to get the door on the Prius partly closed and we drove it to a body shop for the rest of the weekend. Monday will be fine to get an estimate.
The Lexus is drivable, thank goodness. But it has an ugly smear of scratches and dents on the passenger side. I hate driving it around – proof of my distracted brain.
I am SO mad at myself. It will cost precious money that I need to devote to GardenSpirit (we are getting closer to approvals from the bureacracies). It will probably increase my insurance premiums (but there is too much damage to avoid turning it in to Farm Bureau). And I missed my day of renewal and respite that I desperately needed.
There is always a bright spot to every tragedy (if this can be considered a tragedy). Over the years, Victor has opened the door of his little RX8 into the side of my black Lexus, leaving a line of little chips in the paint. Now the whole side needs to be repaired, which will also take care of those little dings! Yay!
But it sure would have been cheaper to touch them up…and a lot better if I’d remembered to renew my Adderall prescription sooner so I might have had some on board before I got in that car today.
Cosmo’s doggie stroller reminds me that we ADD folks also need a little boost when we get tired halfway through doing the dishes or organizing our closets.
"Do dogs really need their own stroller?"
I mulled this question for several weeks before I finally plunked down my credit card on the dog stroller website and bought a few months (or years) of freedom for Cosmo, my 14-year-old Sheltie.
Like any living being that is the equivalent of 85 in human years, Cosmo has a few aches and pains: a bad back, arthritic shoulder, painful hips. He sleeps most of the day and night. But he still loves his walks. When I lace up my walking shoes, he perks up and trots out to the garage to be harnessed into his leash.
Cosmo, and his younger counterpart Boomer, launch our walks with great enthusiasm, nosing around mailboxes, checking out the latest deer tracks. But on the way home, Cosmo’s optimism is overshadowed by his physical ailments. He slows down, limping with each step.
A couple of times, I tried to carry him home, but 40 wiggly pounds gets heavy after a couple of blocks. I left him at home, which broke his heart. The stroller was my last hope, even though I was a bit embarrassed to order it –- after all, this is a DOG we’re talking about. (OK, I also cook for my dogs, but that’s another story.)
That doggie stroller works beautifully, though. I push it empty on the first leg of our journey and when Cosmo tires, I lift him gently into the stroller and push it "with dog" the rest of the way.
That stroller reminds me that we ADD folks also need a little boost when we get tired halfway through doing the dishes or organizing our closets. Our initial optimism and enthusiasm can take a nosedive. Our brains poop out and our bodies follow suit.
Like Cosmo, we have a few aches and pains going on in our ADD brains. We need the equivalent of a doggie stroller to get us back on track. Choosing the right kind of boost is important.
Sometimes we simply need to take our next dose of ADHD medication. Sometimes it’s better to call our therapist or a good friend, or to make an appointment for a neurofeedback session. Like Cosmo’s doggie stroller, we need to tailor our support specifically to meet our ADHD needs.
And then we need to accept that assistance with grace and appreciation. None of this "no, no thanks, I can do it myself" kind of stuff. We know better. We won’t do it ourselves. We’ll stay off track. And then feel bad about ourselves. Again. Which makes it even harder to get back ON track. Sometime we never get back…
So just in case you’re waiting for it, here’s permission to ask for what you need. Hire an ADHD coach or a professional organizer. Join an ADHD support group — online or in person. Sign up for reminders from an appointments-online website. Whatever you need most, make it happen. Then, be grateful for the boost it gives you to make it all the way to DONE — the most beautiful word in the ADHD language!
Actually, the two vines that survived Japanese beetles, grape fungus and complete neglect look pretty good. Probably because I did my duty and pruned them in February (the actual recommended month for pruning – a triumph for any ADD adult!). And I threw a bunch of well-composted fertilizer (aka chicken poop) around the roots. Voila! They were happy little vines.
In June, I noticed several small clumps of hard green nubbins that supposedly would ripen into luscious grapes. Not in my garden; for five years, they have shriveled and fallen to the ground. Or the birds and squirrels have eaten them. I’ve never tasted a single grape from my “vineyard.”
Several weeks later, the darned things got plump. Then they started changing color. My gosh; grapes were actually being born! Every day I checked on them; I shooed away the hungry beetles and hung a little bird netting over them.
Did you know that grapes don’t ripen all at the same time? Within the same bunch there were several deep purple grapes ready to eat, a few more grapes that barely blushed pink and a majority of stubborn green grapes that refused to ripen. When was I supposed to harvest? When all of them turned purple? When a few were still green? I was baffled.
I had my answer the day some of those early bloomers burst their skins and went flat and droopy. Oops. No matter what color, those grapes were coming with me! Carefully, I snipped off the three little bundles (at most 30 or 40 grapes).
I dared not risk bruising my precious cargo in a wicker basket. Instead, I carefully turned up the hem of my T-shirt to form a pocket (think apron pocket) and nestled the grapes against my waist. I patted them gently to make sure they stayed safe, then closed the garden gate and headed for the air-conditioned house.
I went straight to the kitchen, stood over the counter and flipped open my shirt. No grapes! Not a one! They’d fallen out! Panicked, I retraced my steps; surely red and green grapes would be easy to find. No grapes were seen. I went back to the house, more slowly, eyes scanning the green grass. Could birds or squirrels have grabbed them so quickly? Curses on them!
Tears were beginning to gather behind my eyelids. Five years of battling birds and bugs and I had LOST the first harvest? I tried to think like Sesame Street and “take a walk backwards in my mind.” Where had I gone? What had I done? I’d snipped the grapes, put them in my shirt, went to the house…ah! I’d closed the other garden gate!
And there they were, a little smashed (apparently I’d stepped on a few of them), but mostly intact. I made silent apologies to the birds and squirrels after my undeserved condemnation.
Then it hit me: I had actually lost my grapes! On the way from the garden to my house, I had LOST my grapes! I had to ask: is that like losing your marbles?
Do you lose your marbles and then lose your grapes? Or does losing your grapes MAKE you lose your marbles? Is there ADD medication you can take for losing your grapes?
I was still giggling as I composed the survivor grapes into a sad little still life and took pictures for posterity. I might never harvest grapes again. But if I do, with god as my witness: “I’ll never lose my grapes again!”
Not sure I can say the same about losing my marbles
Of course not!
That’s a silly question!
Everyone knows that ADD is only one small part of me.
I am MORE than my ADD.
Right?
Then why are there websites and podcasts and books and organizers and therapists and, yes, coaches, who are eager to help me “deal with” my ADHD? They have tips and tricks and advice oozing from every pore and every page.
“Break the big job into smaller ones.”
“Begin with the end in mind.”
“Stop working on the computer two hours before bedtime.”
I’ve spent a lifetime memorizing these and hundreds of other helpful tips and tricks. I have schedulers and timers and colored folders and project management software. I’ve even recommended them to my clients. I know HOW to get organized, be on time, deliver on my promises. Yet I’ve mastered none of them. And frankly, I’m tired of trying.
I can’t shake the feeling that the world ‘out there’ believes that the operative word in Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder is “deficit.” That’s awfully close to “deficient.” And a long way from “fulfilled,” which is the adjective I’ve chosen to describe the rest of my life.
I unconsciously fall into it, this sense of being “less than” those perplexing folks whose neurotransmitters play together nicely. And I am usually unaware that I have clicked into my compensatory mode, either tap dancing to cover my deficits or applying a thick layer of my most effective Tips and Tricks. I can fake being “normal” for a while, but I have no endurance. The façade melts and I am exposed.
Now that I’m older, I don’t cringe nearly as often as I once did when I was “outed” as an ADDiva. But I do take a look at my patterns. With as much “work” as I’ve done with therapists, coaches, books and all the rest, I am dismayed to find that sometimes my gut response is still shame, followed by an urgent need to “try harder.” Even deeper though, is my realization that I am simply exhausted by the effort. It’s not worth it any more. To my body, my psyche, my energy.
Surely, surely, I can release the growling undercurrent that monitors my ADD-ish behaviors. Or at least notice it before it controls my thoughts and actions. When I’m on my deathbed, I don’t want my last words to be: “Well, I was almost linear!”
Of COURSE there is more to life than dealing with ADD. Everyone knows that. It’s the popular answer, ADD wisdom du jour. But honestly, how much of our lives ARE spent with ADD at the helm? If I am truthful, 100 percent. ADD isn’t a mask I can take off at night. I am not “more” than my ADD. I am ADD and ADD is I. Or perhaps ADD R Me.
So the harder question is: how do I move from “dealing with” ADD to “living with” ADD and thriving as a result of ADD? How do I look ADD in the eye, acknowledge its breath and depth and treat it as a respected ally instead of a pesky nuisance to be shooed away and thwarted at every turn?
I don’t have the answer. This inquiry deserves more than a flippant remark or a clichéd retort. My suspicion is that each of us will make peace (and friends) with our ADD with as much variety and creativity as our wild-child brains allow.
So I invite you into the question. How do YOU go deeper, beyond the “let’s fix it” stage? How do you put your arm around ADD and walk down the road with it, knowing that there is one absolute certainty: that ADD will never desert you? It is yours (and you) for as long as you live. How do you move from “endurance” to “fulfillment” starting right now?
I’ve learned to accommodate my ADHD’s quirks and demands. But when I start to ignore it, pretend it doesn’t exist, even try to brush it off like a bit of fluff, my ADHD buzzes to life.
You know the axiom: “It takes a village to raise a child?” Well, “it takes a party” to get my house and yard clean on the same day!
Last night was the annual party for my husband’s lab students. We’ve hosted the event for five or six years, so I have the pre-party To Do list down to a science. Order the Mexican food. Make the sangria. Try to get in (and out of) the shower before the first guest arrives. (That hasn’t happened yet; don’t people know NOT to arrive on time at an ADD-driven event?)
The day after the party is like a holiday for me. I walk around in a state of semi-amazement that I (temporarily) live in a place that is picture perfect. There are no piles in the kitchen. The carpet has no stains. The pillows are fluffed and the dust settled. At least for the moment.
Even the landscaping is flawless. This morning, still wearing my nightgown, I went outside to “survey my domain.” What a thrill it was to see a freshly mown lawn, mulched flowerbeds, blueberries ready to burst into luscious sweetness. Ah, life is good. So good. Perhaps it would stay like this forever…
My two faithful Shelties, Boomer and Cosmo, convinced me that no idyllic setting was complete without breakfast. So I meandered back to the kitchen and pulled out the dog bowls. I noticed a tickle on my shoulder, so I casually reached up to scratch it when a loud “Bzzzzzzzzzz” exploded near my right ear. In a nanosecond, I screamed, yanked my nightgown over my head and threw it to the floor.
“What’s wrong?” my husband asked, as he ran into the kitchen.
“There’s a bee in my nightgown!” I gasped. “Get it out of here!”
Victor (my hero) grabbed the nightgown (as I grabbed a robe), took it out to the deck and shook it to release the bee. The bee wouldn’t let go. The creature – a large bumblebee of some sort – hung on for dear life. Victor shook harder. Apparently, the bee adored my nightgown; it would not loosen its grip.
Finally, Victor managed to scrape the bee onto the patio table, where it fell on its back, spun around drunkenly and then righted itself. I pulled my nightgown back on, still shuddering that unknowingly I’d carried a bee on my shoulder for – how long? Ten minutes? Twenty? Fortunately, there was no sign of a bee sting.
By the time I calmed down, I realized that the episode was a perfect metaphor for my ADHD. Like the bee, my ADHD hitches a ride on my life. Most of the time, it glides along quietly; I’ve learned to accommodate its quirks and demands. But when I start to ignore it, pretend it doesn’t exist, even try to brush it off like a bit of fluff, my ADHD buzzes its warning:
“You can’t get rid of me (bzzzzzzz!). I’m here forever (bzzzzzzz!). Work with me and it’ll be fine (bzzzzzzz!). Fight with me and you might get stung (bzzzzzzz!)."
Point well taken (if you’ll excuse the pun). I know better than to imagine that weeds will never grow again in my flowerbeds; weeds grow in everyone’s flowerbeds. And I know that I can’t dislodge my ADHD from its private perch. It’s tenacious. It likes me. It’s my lifelong companion.
So when the piles reappear on the island in my kitchen – as they most certainly will – I’ll be reminded of that stubborn bee and its warning: "I’m here. This is reality. Do what you have to do to take care of yourself. I’m not going away."
ADHD buzzes in my ear every day. I respect it. I take care of myself. And sometimes I weed the flowerbeds. Even the ones with bees…
My husband and I went out for dinner last week. Victor ordered crab legs. I didn’t.
I love crab legs; they’re almost as good as lobster. But I haven’t ordered or eaten them in years. Why? It’s the process: wrestling with that metal vise-like thing to crack open the shell; using those teeny tiny little forks to dig out a small morsel of crab; dipping it into the drawn butter, trying not to lose it at the bottom of the bowl and finally getting a bite to my mouth.
Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. Ur, no, that’s shampoo.
But it might as well be crab legs. It’s all about repeating the same steps over and over. After the first few bites, it gets pretty boring. I’m not in the mood to play with shells when I’m really hungry.
Ditto for seeds, as in watermelon seeds. Let’s face it: the best part of a watermelon is that sweet juicy center that has no seeds at all. If I were completely selfish or extravagant, I’d sit down with half a watermelon and eat only that center section and only down to the “seed layer.”
Since I’m neither selfish nor extravagant, I end up with a wedge of watermelon that has, at most, three good bites without seeds. Then I am forced to be on high alert for small darkish shadows, the “seed aura,” if you will. And then I have to decide on the least offensive way to get rid of them. It’s just too much trouble; too much thinking.
I’m struck by how insanely petulant this sounds; I’m complaining about a few seeds or shells at a time when so many people in our world go to bed hungry each night. And yet, this is my reality. My ADD reality.
In the “bad old days,” before I knew anything about ADD, I was ashamed of being so “picky” about small details, agonizing over things that were unimportant to other people. It was only after my diagnosis that I realized that, unconsciously, I had been taking care of myself in the most tender way imaginable. I was conserving my precious patience and focus so they were available when I needed them most. Perhaps at school. Or with my sons. Or driving to work.
The older I get, the more I want to spend my energy on things that matter to me: my husband, my friends, my clients, my retreats, my Shelties, my children and their children. I have a perfect right to be “picky” about my choices. I’ve given myself permission to set up a life that accommodates my limited supply of concentration.
It’s OK if I decide to skip the watermelon and crab legs. It’s OK for me to sit at the back of the room so I can wiggle in my seat, or even doze off. It’s OK for me to work all night and take an afternoon nap. Because this is my life. Mine. I claim it. I create it. I live it. Even if it clashes with someone else’s reality, someone who adores watermelon, for instance.
I’m reminded of my favorite scene from the wonderfully funny movie “On Golden Pond” with Katherine Hepburn. Hepburn’s character is reassuring her young grandson that his grandfather (played by Henry Fonda) loves him deeply, even in his most cantankerous moments.
“Sometimes,” says Hepburn, “you have to look hard at a person and remember he’s doing the best he can. He’s just trying to find his way, that’s all. Just like you.”
Visited my family over the weekend and my impulsivity hit at the checkout counter of the local discount store. Picked up a copy of one of my all time favorite movies, Funny Girl.
Not only do I love the music, but the costumes and the rags-to-riches storyline. And Omar Sharif. And Streisand, of course.
Those bedraggled yellow roses Fanny Brice clung to on that tugboat? Fabulous.
It reminded me of how often ADDivas play Funny Girl in a variety of roles: snappy comebacks, witty jokes, sarcastic comments.
I’ve certainly done it. Cracked a joke so that people laugh with me instead of AT me.
Peeking underneath those funny girl jokes I find a jelly belly of fear and insecurity. Some real. Some imagined.
I’ve realized in recent years that jokes keep me safe, but they also hold me away from people, keep them from knowing me more fully. Of course, that’s just what I intend. If they really KNEW me, they’d run for the hills, right?
Maybe not. Perhaps being known starts with raw honesty instead of jokes. Unveiling who I am – the real me – is my first step towards self acceptance. And when I can accept me (like me? love me?) then I don’t need the funny girl facade any longer.
"Life is far from sunny
When the laugh is over
And the joke’s on you
A girl’s gotta have a sense of humor
That’s one thing you really need for sure,
When you’re a funny girl
The fellow said, a funny girl
Funny, how it ain’t so funny, funny girl." -Jule Steyne, composer, 1968
All through the ADDiva homes, there were receipts a’rustling and eyes getting bleary….
Oh, maybe that was just at my house…
Why DO I do this every year? I know better. I have just as much time as the people who file on time instead of getting an extension (sigh). I swear this year will be different. But it’s not.
But you know what? It’s a choice I make, right?
I choose whether to watch American Idol or input my Costco receipts (yes, this is an American Idol household, blush blush). And if it was really really REALLY important to me, I would commit to doing it differently, change my attitude toward time and then march to a different drummer.
Clearly I don’t value being on time with the taxes as much as I value other things. Like going to Meetup (support group) or playing with my Shelties or writing in this blog.
So for 2008 (hey, at least I’m working on the right YEAR of taxes!) I will put in my last minute hours again.
Some of you know the saga of GardenSpirit Guesthouse but most of you do not.
GardenSpirit is my dream come true retreat house for women that I created from a suburban house, transformed it into a cottage wonderland and now use it for my own retreats and for other women’s groups and personal retreats.
About two weeks ago, I got an email from the local planning department telling me to close down immediately, then another one from the local health department telling me the same thing. Not that GardenSpirit is unhealthy but because I haven’t been operating as a business, but rather as a private person giving retreats.
I thought it might be no problem, but dealing with the government is far far far worse than I ever imagined. The people aren’t at fault, but the regulations and hoops they are trying to make me jump through border on ridiculous. Here’s an example:
I have a moderate size four bedroom house. When I added on to the deck a couple of years ago, I put in a ramp so that wheelchair bound women could get into the sunroom. I don’t have a handicapped accessible bathroom yet. The planning people are saying I have to put in PERMANENT concrete ramps inside the house to get people into the bedrooms. Because of the slope requirements, the ramp would have to be 12 feet long. The room is only 11 feet long. The next tier ramp has to be 8 feet long and will block access for everyone else to get out the sliding glass doors. See what I mean? I feel like bumper pool, trying so hard to make everyone happy and feeling like it’s going nowhere fast.
Let me be clear — I absolutely believe in providing handicapped access to GardenSpirit. I already started with the deck ramp. I am willing to buy portable ramps for the house, even look at installing a handicapped bath in the garage (the only place available). But they want me to widen the halls to 36 inches wide – with a stairway on one side and heating ducts on the other . Impossible without rebuilding the entire house. Which is…impossible.
Because the county doubled the stream buffer to 110 feet, which means I cannot do ANY construction in the house. NONE. See what I mean?? There are a lot more of these "push me into a corner and watch me twist into a pretzel to try to meet their standards."
I have been pretty darned depressed, almost frantic, the last couple of weeks. But yesterday I found out that the Dept of Justice which administers the Americans with Disabilities Act requires only that I make accommodations that are "readily achievable without much difficulty or expense." Whew!
I can certainly add on to the parking pad for a van accessible space. And I can replace the door knobs with lever handles AND buy that portable ramp. Otherwise I will be completely shut down. I can’t believe that’s what the Universe has in mind. GardenSpirit has healed and helped so many women and couples already. It has so much more to offer.
So now that I have bounced off the basement floor, I am coming on back to you, ADDivas. We have a heck of a month planned for April. Video; snippets of my new book; fabulous guests and MORE. Yay. It feels good to be back home with you.
Occasionally I get this lesson handed to me and I swear I’ll remember it forever.
Then I forget it.
I think they call that lessons NOT learned. But here we go…
The bottom line of dealing with ADD is to simplify.
Simplify. Simplify, Simplify.
Instead I tend to complicate, complicate, complicate.
Silly, but true example: I took my iPhone with me yesterday to pick up my Sheltie from the vet (torn pad on his foot – awful, let’s not talk about it) and I picked up my handy dandy bluetooth headset so I could call my mom in Illinois without holding the phone to my ear. No law in NC about hands-free talking while driving but it’s coming.
I always have trouble getting the headset to communicate with the phone, so I often end up wearing the headset but holding the phone to my other ear anyway…sigh. This time I was determined to make it work. I turned on the headset first, then the phone. I called my husband as a Bluetooth check. Unaware that he was my guinea pig at that moment, we had a pleasant interlude – with me holding my phone to my ear — no sound from the headset,
I kept at it, pushing buttons, hoping for some kind of signal in my headset ear. Silence.
I was within 60 second of reaching the vet when I remembered that my iPhone had crashed a few weeks ago. That meant resetting the entire phone. Maybe the bluetooth wasn’t paired with my headset any more.
Voila! Not only was it not paired, it wasn’t even turned on in the Settings area. A quick adjustment and I could hear sound in my headset. Yay,
My point is that … if I didn’t have a bluetooth headset, I wouldn’t have used my precious brain cells and my even more precious time screwing around with it and finally figuring it out. And if I didn’t have an iPhone – which needs resetting far too often – I might not have lost the Bluetooth signal anyway. And if I didn’t have a cell phone, I wouldn’t have tried to call my mom while I was driving. I would have waited til I got home. And paid more attention to my driving.
This scenario plays out in my life thousands of times – not with a cell phone, but with dozens of other complications which I have invited into my life — ME. I did that. I chose to have a hot tub with a heater that goes out. I chose to have not one dog but two which more than doubles my expenses, worry and guilt about not walking them regularly. I chose to start 23 project instead of 4 which keeps me always behind and in a hurry.
I have often thought that my complicated life is how I keep my ADD brain interested and engaged. I do believe that. But it also takes so little to overwhelm my ADD brain that I am probably smarter to simplify my life. Something complicated WILL show up, I can be sure.
Simplify. Simplify. Simplify
Thoreau had it right 100 years ago. Or was that Emerson? Oh, now I have to double check online. Making my life more complicated just because I made a reference to a famous writer/philosopher. Will I ever learn this lesson?
PS- It’s Thoreau. I also need to trust my first instinct. There’s another surefire ADD coping tip I need to learn.
The long and short of the rest of the story is that I called a friend who managed to get the door on the Prius partly closed and we drove it to a body shop for the rest of the weekend. Monday will be fine to get an estimate.
my ADHD hitches a ride on my life. Most of the time, it glides along quietly; I’ve learned to accommodate its quirks and demands. But when I start to ignore it, pretend it doesn’t exist, even try to brush it off like a bit of fluff, my ADHD buzzes its warning:
But it might as well be crab legs. It’s all about repeating the same steps over and over. After the first few bites, it gets pretty boring. I’m not in the mood to play with shells when I’m really hungry.
choices. I’ve given myself permission to set up a life that accommodates my limited supply of concentration.
