Two years after my ADHD diagnosis, & what have I learned?

It was two years ago this week that I was given a formal diagnosis of ADHD, at the ripe (very) old age of 49. I wasn’t surprised; in fact I was more worried that it wasn’t ADHD, and my scattered and racing thoughts, brain fog, chronic forgetfulness, abysmal time management skills, and poor organization were actually related to some organic brain disease, like an extremely early onset (from birth) form of Alzheimer’s.

What’s changed since then? Not much. I did try to seek professional help, but it was a dispiriting experience, as the responses I got from various clinics and therapists’ offices were limited to (a) they weren’t taking new clients, (b) they didn’t take insurance, (c) they didn’t take my insurance, (d) nothing, because they never called me back. Evidently (at least in New York City) the only way you’ll see a therapist as a new client any time within the next six months is if you’re holding a knife to your own throat when you call to make the appointment, and as desperate as I’ve been for help at times, I can’t quite bring myself to lie about it.

So I’ve skimmed a few books and watched some YouTube videos. Support groups didn’t really help, because (like a lot of social media, honestly) they offered less support and encouragement and more a bunch of adults trying to outdo each other over whose life was harder. On the opposite side of that, I also refuse to play that nonsense “ADHD is a superpower” game, just as I also refuse to claim that being introverted makes me smarter than other people. I don’t know why we have to cling to the notion that these things make us special. It’s a fucking burden, and I don’t feel like an X-Man or whatever because I have it.

On the upside, having an on-paper diagnosis of ADHD has helped me to understand my father better, even though he’s dead now and neither of us can benefit from it. He was, to put it bluntly, a colossal fuck-up, but also very smart. He devoured books, and had a quick, witty sense of humor, which I like to think I inherited from him (along with, ha ha ha, ADHD). I have most of his grade school report cards, and the teacher’s comments on them are poignantly familiar: “daydreamer,” “only wants to read,” “doesn’t stay on task,” “problems turning in homework,” “smart but doesn’t apply himself,” “could be doing much better work.” His grades declined every year, and the comments grew more frustrated.

But nobody ever did anything, because nobody knew what ADHD was yet, and, with a restless, racing brain he gradually became a juvenile delinquent, then dropped out of school. He joined the Army, but that didn’t work out either, and by the time he was discharged (after going AWOL several times, usually by shacking up with a girlfriend somewhere), he had developed an intense dislike for authority. He worked menial jobs, but because he didn’t like being told what to do and when to do it, he’d simply quit them without any fallback crutch.

Eventually, he got a job driving a cab, which meant he didn’t have to answer to anyone but himself. But because of the long, late evening (and sometimes overnight) hours (and because my mother was pretty much out of the picture), it meant that from age 12 on I was left alone much of the time, to feed, take care of, and look after myself, and that is why I am now a middle-aged woman who has a collection of Pusheen plushies and was obsessed with Animal Crossing at one point.

ANYWAY, I used to resent him, and wished that I could have had at least one parent who knew what the fuck they were doing. Now, knowing that we shared the same disorder, I have given him some grace. I got the same comments on my report cards, that I was smart but lazy, that I was capable of better work, a daydreamer, chronically disorganized. Although by the time I was in school they sort of knew what ADHD was, it was then classified as a behavioral disorder only seen in boys.

Public school in the 80s meant the only way you got attention from teachers was if you were splitting atoms by third grade, or unable to spell your own name by sixth grade, there was no in-between. Like my dad, nobody knew what was going on with me, and by the time I was in middle school I just muddled through, doing the bare minimum required to pass my classes, and really only making an effort if I was interested in a specific subject. I dropped out of college, and have never had a job that felt like a potential career rather than just how I paid the bills.

I try to give myself some grace too, but it’s hard. My brain is full of ideas, all the time. I’m always thinking of writing ideas, podcast ideas, art and craft ideas. I’ve had more hobbies than I can remember. I’ve started more writing books than I can remember. I’m always buzzing with creativity, but I can’t focus long enough to stick with it and put my thoughts in order. Or one thing goes wrong and I deem it a disaster. Or I just don’t know how to organize my time. I’m working on this book about mental health in pop culture, and it’s proving to be a massive undertaking, and every time I’m only able to squeeze out a paragraph or two when I feel like I should be writing pages at a time, I go into a spiral of self-loathing and try to convince myself that it’s pointless to even try.

That’s the most frustrating thing, how much time I waste, both intentionally and unintentionally, on stupid, pointless shit. How many great ideas I’ve had that have just been lost to the ether, because I forgot, or because I couldn’t figure out how to make the time. I look with wonder (and envy) at people who can juggle multiple creative pursuits, writing several thousand words a day or recording more than one podcast while still maintaining a full-time job and other responsibilities. It can be done. I just can’t do it, and sometimes I hate myself for it. Blaming a dysfunction in my brain feels weak, I’ve bought too much into that disability porn shit about how you can overcome the things that hold you back, if you really want to. Well, I do, and I still can’t do it, so what does that say about me?

I don’t even like calling it a “disability,” though I guess it qualifies as one. It feels like stolen valor. Not being able to walk is a disability, having to hit the snooze button five times before you can get out of bed is laziness. Let me clarify: I’m only talking about myself here, everyone else’s experiences with ADHD are valid (except for that whole referring to it as a “superpower” thing, let’s stop kidding ourselves). I guess I had hoped that once I had a formal diagnosis from a real expert (and not some 10 question test on Psychology Today’s website) it would magically make me more organized and focused. It hasn’t. It’s just an explanation for why I’m not, but it doesn’t make me really feel any better about it.