This isn’t funny any more

I’ve laughed and joked about my wondering mind.  The voices in my head, my inability to get out of the rut and make positive change in my life last longer than a few days or weeks. I’ve bemoaned my childhood – blaming it for what I perceive to be my adult shortcomings. I play at accepting the fact that I struggle to focus; to process or retain information.  I fall back on my writing because it slows things down and allows me to more fully process what’s going on inside my head.  I prefer writing to talking because talking doesn’t have an edit button and more often than not, I say things impulsively which leads to messy situations, hurt feelings, and gross misunderstandings. I’ve looked back through my journals, noticing how I tell the same story over and over, year after year. My income has consistently been $1000 short of what needed to go out; my “romantic” relationships have been with the same type of man – you know the one, he’s emotionally incapable of loving me the way I want but I stay by his side till he finds his true love. I’m 46 years old – that love story has played out since I was seven.  I carry a deep seated fear that my current situation will play out the same, hence my being so closed mouth about it.

But that’s a bit off topic. Let me come back to the point.  I have a dear friend of mine who has done quite a bit of reading on brain function. She does the research so she can better cope with a loved one in her life. We’d talked symptoms and diagnosis before but it didn’t click until yesterday that a lot of what she described fit me to a tee. My behavior, my life on the merry go round stopped being funny. What if, and this isn’t some self-diagnosed, hypochondria going on.  What if I just happen to have been living with a real glitch in my brain chemistry all this time? AADD, or ADHD, or something similar.  It would not be all that surprising to have gone un-diagnosed all these years. I grew up in a time when kids weren’t tested to death, or medicated to the point of being zombies. We didn’t have terms like ADHD, we had spankings to correct our fidgeting hyper activity.  We had recess and kids on the block with whom we could be as out of control as we needed to be. I’ve always been the odd duck, just odd enough to garner taunts of other kids but not odd enough that the adults thought I should be “looked” at.

I learned to curb my behavior enough to fly under the radar.  That’s getting difficult these days as menopause has thrown my chemicals into even further disarray.  My life is also in great flux right now as I am attempting to put concentrated effort into self-improvement. That’s what really brought the idea that maybe it’s more than just a lack of self-discipline or self-esteem that compels me to do what I do, the way I do it.

I’ve gone online and left a message with the first psychiatrist I came across who listed a specialty in AADD. And now, I’m afraid. What if I do have something off and I’m prescribed the magic pill.  I seem to be finally getting to love who I am, then here’s the possibility that who I “am” isn’t the “real” me.  I don’t want to lose what I’ve fought so hard to fall in love with. On the other hand, I desperately want off this ride.  I want to be able to focus and follow-through; to make commitments I can keep.  To not lose an idea in the middle of a sentence.  I want to stop with the self-damaging, impulsive behavior. I want to make up my mind and have it stay made for longer than a few hours. I want to stop hurting.

Well, enough of that.  I would say I’d keep you posted, but as is evidenced by my blog posts, we know that there’ll be something else to catch my attention and I’ll forget we even started this conversation.

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