April 1, 2024.
(The timer is set for 20 minutes. I am dragging my heavy fingers across the keyboard. What comes out will be good enough.)
It’s April Fool’s Day. So, if this is a joke, now would be a good time to tell me.
This sucks.
I didn’t expect the road to treatment to be a straight line. Of course, I hoped it would be, but no dice. I get it. It’s been all of a month. I’ve gone from an unmitigated, unmedicated disaster to a slightly better version of that. I’ve had good days, too. That’s an improvement.
In fact, it’s a lot of progress in a short amount of time. Many neurotypicals would still be patiently waiting weeks for their appointment, to then wait for an assessment, to then wait for results, to then wait for prescriptions and therapy. They would not able to find and mobilize the resources I did with my supercharged, steamrolling ADHD brain. But they don’t need the help anyway.
They are normal. I am not. So here we are.
I remind myself that half the battle is finding what doesn’t work, but that is a scary proposition. What if it’s nothing? What if nothing works? I hear that happens.
The first few days were great. I had a leash on my tongue. A very thin, overstretched leash with a loose clasp, but I can finally think before I speak. I am curbing my tone. I was out of my head bit. Instead of 302 simultaneous thoughts, I had 100.
But the next day, 175. Then 252, now 297.
Why am I so anxious? I don’t know what I am supposed to feel. How about "just better" for goodness sakes. Please. I just want to feel better.
But I do feel better, sometimes.
What I want is to feel the euphoria I had the first 3 days on medicine. Articles online remind that it takes a while to find a therapeutic does. Others suspect the medication shortage is leading to watered down potency. I. just. can’t. anymore. with. the. internet.
Can I count more small wins?
My dishes are done. My room’s not a mess. Is that enough?
My hands are cold. That’s normal. My mouth is dry, but I drink water. These side effects are nothing. I just can’t make myself adult today. I feel so scared.
I email my “care team”.
I hate to do it. I was taught not to cause trouble. Be nice. I think about how my clinician works in the ER part time and is dealing with kids in crisis. I can’t bother her. I am not a kid in crises. I am a grown woman in crisis. Don’t ask for too much. Every time I want to ask for what I need, even from the people whose job it is to supply it, it makes me uncomfortable.
It reminds me of the time my mom and I came along to visit the Jones’, an old couple my dad knew. He was helping Mr. Jones fix his air conditioner. My mom and I sat in the kitchen with his wife, a lovely old lady that still wore dresses and collected spoons. She reminded me of the colorized version of the old woman on the other side of the swimming pool in that Twilight Zone episode. Two rich kids who've got selfish parents on the brink of divorce discover that when they swim to the bottom of their pool, they come out (through the Twighlight Zone, of course) in a fishing pond in the country. It's pastoral and sunny. They're in simpler times. There’s a welcoming grandma there in a little old house who knows just what they need and serves it up with ice cream on the side.
Ultimately, they never return to their emotionally unavailable parents. They’ve found something better than mansions, nannies, and pools. They’ve found what they really need.
Mrs. Jones offered me a slice of pie. Oh, thank God. I was bored out of my gourd, and that little slice of dopamine on a plate that would have gotten me through sitting in that tidy kitchen for an hour. I wanted that pie. I needed that pie. But my mom said, “Oh, no. We are fine.” God, I hated my mom in that moment.
I was little, but I know that even Mrs. Jones would have enjoyed seeing a little girl devour a slice of her apple pie. It’s not like we asked her to make it. It was already there. One small plate, a fork, and a knife. That’s all that would get dirty. I’d refuse the drink; that would be a concession.
But no, we couldn’t be any trouble.
So, I was denied the dopamine, and Mrs. Jones was denied the joy of seeing someone enjoy her pie. She needed to be needed as much as I needed the pie. It was probably the last pie she ever made, and she went to her death bed sad. He last words were probably, “why couldn’t she just eat the pie.” But we couldn’t impose. Why? Because we are women. We are polite, and it was 1979, so none of us, including Mrs. Jones, got what we needed thanks to good manners and fear.
I don’t blame my mom. It’s what she learned, and she stuffed more need, dreams, and desires under her own rug than I ever will.
But this is the backdrop against which we have allowed girls with ADHD to become women with unmitigated ADHD. Stuffing our needs, hiding our symptoms, refusing help even when offered.
Foregoing pie.
I ponder this, then send a little note to my “Care Team”. I feel like a burden for the entire 7 minutes it takes to get a response.
It’s simple, though. She tells me to set up a telemedicine appointment so we can adjust the regimen. We talk in 2.5 days. I can do that.
Today is not a good day. Yet, I have not given up. And perhaps something is working. Maybe it is even the medicine, or maybe I am just so fricking tired of this sh*t.
I just want some pie and some help. Pie might even help.
Dare I feel better already?