Navigating the world of ADHD from an African American perspective.
Sounds lofty, doesn’t it? I thought so. I imagined hipsters coming to view and marvel over how I manage to work my way through life with what some people consider to be a disability (I don’t know about this disability thing- more on that later). I imagined telling you the whole sordid tale of my diagnosis at 11, but due to a prejudice against the condition, not receiving proper treatment until 25. It was a good idea. It might even have worked.
I’m writing this post at 4:25AM, the day after a grueling blended-family Christmas, yet I haven’t been to sleep since yesterday. This is so typical of someone with ADHD that I decided to walk you through yesterday’s events, just so you can get a flavor for how hectic things can be.
The day started with a wake-up call from my husband. I have a symptom that they sometimes call “sleep of the dead,” meaning I don’t hear alarms and I am incredibly difficult to rouse. Before I get too far into this tale, I should mention that my husband has ADHD too. Our morning commute looks something like this:
Can’t you just picture it? These two people scrambling madly from one end of the house to the other, trying desperately to find their ID badges, their keys, avoid killing each other, and still make it to work on time. This particular morning, because it is Christmas, I don’t have to go to work, but I do still have to get my husband to work because we only have one car. So I drag myself to my feet, fortunately dressed in the same thing I wore yesterday but only because I fell asleep in it.
My husband chose this morning to clean all the dirty clothes. So as I stumble back into the living-room I notice with horror that instead of looking pristine, a la Donna Reid, it more closely resembles a Chinese laundry. I ignore this and dive back onto the couch to surf the net for the morning scoop on Facebook, to see what the latest celebrity gossip is, but mostly to avoid walking my Jack Russell Terriers, who are stirring from slumber and glancing over at me trying to see if they can talk me into going outside. The problem with that is. . . I’m still not awake yet. I notice my tree ribbons have been moved up to the top of the tree, but they still aren’t right, the house isn’t decorated yet, the presents still aren’t wrapped, I’ve been down with a migraine all week, and I have no motivation, compounded by the fact that I haven’t got enough sense to take my Vyvanse to clear my head.
Somehow I manage to get hubby to work in one piece, come back to the house and promptly take my medicine, and spend the next hour surfing the web to wait for them to kick in. Unfortunately, the migraine that has been kicking my butt reappears and I decide to take a nap. I oversleep, slap some decent clothing on, do a rush makeup job, and decide to snap just one Christmas selfie so everyone can see how well Christmas at my house is going. . . which turns into a 20 minute selfie session attempting to get the perfect shot, and I wonder if that article I read about narcissism being related to people who take lots of selfies and edit to get the perfect shot, which leads me to an internet search of the characteristics of narcissistic personality disorder, because the last thing I want is ANOTHER diagnosis.
After all of this, somehow I still manage to get out of the house in time enough to get my day of visiting relatives and picking up my stepdaughter underway, but only after a herculean effort to keep things flowing along. I got caught up trying to fix my Christmas decorations on my way out the door, while balancing my iPhone against my chin, while solidifying holiday plans with my mother in law. I left in plenty of time but still I managed to be an hour late to get the kid, and twenty minutes late to pick up the hubby from work. We haven’t opened presents yet, my living-room STILL looks like I’m operating a sweat shop in my basement, and the migraine is here to stay . . . but I got a few great Christmas selfies! Here’s to excellent photos and a general lack of productivity!
Till next time,
P.S. Before I sat down to write this, I managed to put the house to rights– for now.