ADHD is my Superpower
but first I must reconcile with my past-after I find my glasses
Hello, my name is Theresa and I’m an ADHD’er. (Hello, Theresa…)
My story begins in 3rd grade, the principal’s office to be exact. My plaid jumper clad ass is about to receive a paddling. I can’t remember what the exact offense was, but I believe the teacher’s note on my report card hints at my sin.
“Theresa has a hard time taking anything seriously and seems to think that everything is a joke.”
And because this was a Catholic school, such frivolity and mirth were not encouraged.
Seventh grade found me in the principal’s office, too. Curmudgeons. But at least they didn’t wield a paddle. Once again, my comedic genius went unappreciated. (Dear Laura Sunblatt, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry about sticking those pins through your eraser and placing them on your chair just before you sat down. Never knew a person could catch so much air launching from a seated position.)
8th grade-I’m in a seat of shame in the hallway. I had regaled my fellow science students with a demonstration of the Brim Twist. The teacher was not amused.
What’s with these killjoys in education?
Class clown. Mischief maker. That was/is me. I would entertain myself during class by observing the personalities and behaviors of the others and gave them nicknames for my own private enjoyment.
Let’s see, there was Bubbles, Tron, Elephantina (I have no idea where the hell that one came from) and so on.
College was a new world of challenges. I tried a philosophy once and lasted one class. My god I was bored.
I also discovered English professors get pretty uptight over adhering to APA Style. One prof didn’t appreciate my playful stabs in my essays over the tedium in the Ian McEwan book we studied. It seemed to be a better response to the gloomy book than offing myself.
Ah yes. Where was I? College. I attended a total of SIX of them. I managed to eek out a few associate’s degrees along the way but the pattern was clear. Mighty was the struggle with sticking to something.
It wasn’t that I didn’t love education. I have been a voracious reader for as far back as I can remember. The thirst for knowledge has always been there. The library has always been my happy place.
I just thought I was a fuckup. It was easy to crack jokes about my perceived failings but the reality was, I had growing concern and discontent as I watched my peers graduate and begin successful careers.
I dreamed of traveling abroad. To get fluent in German. And then Spanish. And do cool things. Lots of dreams.
But I could never seem to get my shit together to make them happen.
Instead, I ended up volunteering in a small church school where I blossomed as a leader. And they eagerly embraced an energetic volunteer.
At one time, I juggled teaching 2–5th graders in the church school, did the school books, and occasional admin work. I threw myself into the church music scene, playing guitar and singing. Eventually, I would teach myself piano too and got good enough to play for services.
I loved it. And I felt loved, something very important to a young woman who lacked an emotionally healthy father’s validation. So, I eagerly ate up the affirmation.
I had a mission, variety, and I felt appreciated.
And I was also bound by fear and disappointment. Especially as I watched students graduate, go on to university, and do the things that I had dreamed of.
What the fuck is the matter with me? WHAT THE FUCK IS THE MATTER WITH ME?
Romance and subsequent marriage quieted my agitations. But the tendencies were still there.
I struggled to keep a job long term and changed frequently.
By the time kids came along, I was delighted to be a full-time mom. I loved being a homemaker. No more boring jobs and bosses that drove me nuts. It provided autonomy and had plenty of variety. I excelled at budgeting and running our home on a dime. I developed systems and honed my organizing skills, so much that people became coming to me for help to get their homes in order.
Hard work? Hardest work ever. And I. LOVED. IT. I was good at it too.
Never mind, my poor husband dealt with my growing anxiety and depression. I developed chronic pain and a host of mysterious symptoms with no apparent cause. (Hello, MindBody Syndrome… a topic for another time.)
The restlessness was ever present, too. That was easy to pin on his ADD however.
When one of our kids was diagnosed with ADHD, I threw myself into learning about it. I even ended up writing about book about ADHD. Hello pot, meet kettle.
I was still blinded to the fact that my then husband wasn’t the only gene pool contributing to the ADHD tendencies.
These recollections are what I ponder as I review these events through an ADHD lens.
Getting my diagnosis explains a lot. I’m not a fuckup, even though it will take time to quiet that voice that still screeches at me and my perceived moral failings.
This is empowering.
But it also brings a shit ton of grief.
How might my life had been different had I been diagnosed and treated early on?
Would I be sitting here now, at age 59, realizing I have done very few of the things I dreamed of?
Breast cancer further reminds me that life is short. Very short.
I am cancer free and healthy. And medication that feels like a glorious miracle in my brain. Is this what a “normal” person feels like?
Might there be some time to pursue some of the unfulfilled dreams?
No longer is the conductor in my brain impatiently tapping his baton trying to seize the attention of a discordant orchestra busy tuning up.
She steps onto the stage. She taps the stand.
There is quiet.
The musicians fix their eyes on her. She flashes a smile. Let’s do this
She signals with an upward sweep of her arms.
Instruments, up!
And the opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth announce a new day.
This is my ADHD brain on drugs.
Only it’s time for my own song to be played.
Thanks so much for reading. You can find me around the internet at www.theresawinn.com, on Facebook, LinkedIn and Instagram. If you’d like to support my writing in a small way, feel free to contribute to my wishlist.
