Moving Forward

Welp, in true-to-me fashion, I’ve ignored this blog for another year until some kind member of my tribe posted a lovely message that reminded me I have something to say that someone – okay, maybe even three or four someones – might want to read.

Since my last ADHD post, I’ve started stimulant medication. Yeah, that horrible “it’s going to make your anxiety so much worse” pill:  Adderall. (I imagine some kind of dun-dun-dun music here.)

Well, my friends, the pattern continues. Another doctor telling me that my inclinations were wrong. Thankfully, I have a psychiatrist who agrees with me.

At my first appointment, the psychiatrist was quite reluctant to diagnose ADHD. We spent a good hour talking about PTSD and generational anxiety. We talked about how trauma inherently has an impact on our genes and can take decades to address, possibly never to be overcome.

As we spoke, I sat in fear and utter disappointment. I resigned to the thought that he’s not going to see me. That he’s going to say I need to exercise and go to therapy and everything will be hunky dory after that. The usual prescription for my challenges. The same prescription that hasn’t produced additional measurable effects for years.

To my amazement, I was wrong. He couldn’t say I for sure have an ADHD diagnosis after one meeting, but he could say if Wellbutrin worked, perhaps an increase in stimulants would. That sometimes we don’t know exactly what’s happening in a person’s brain and we have to be open to unconventional approaches. That we could give a stimulant a try and, if it didn’t work, move on from there.

I don’t think I said very much at this point. It has been so rare to be heard – be really heard by a medical professional that it was a extraordinary and unexpected.

I started the Adderall a couple days later.

Holy moly guacamole. Can you imagine a room full of hundreds – thousands of people all screaming your name and grabbing at your feet as you valiantly fail at climbing the ladder to “regular life.” Now, imagine them all shutting up. Imagine knowing quiet for the first time… ever.

That was what Adderall gave me. No longer was my brain racing on whatever issue it cared about that moment. I could quiet. I could focus. I could silence the noise… the noise I never knew wasn’t constant and permanent.

Little by little I reclaimed a life I never knew I lost. I washed the dishes without becoming overwhelmed by the peeling paint behind the sink or the broken soap dispenser.

But I lost good things too. I lost that overwhelming excitement and non-stop creative processing that came with every new idea. (Don’t worry – I got it back.) I lost the passionate advocate screaming her heart out to save the world. (Don’t worry – I figured out I’m more effective without that voice.)

I don’t wallow in my anxiety. I don’t find myself making endless list after list after list. I remember things.

I sleep. In all the glorious that is slumber, I find rest and relief for the first time. My brain has found a way to care less that sleep is boring and more that sleep is important and committed to it.

You know what else I did? I got a job – and it’s been six months and I haven’t yet once been engaged in the never-ending drama that is an American workplace.

It feels miraculous, but it’s not. It’s still work. I’m still in therapy with a therapy who focuses on practical solutions to everyday problems. I no longer have to make up a topic for weekly discussion. I talk about what went wrong; and what went right. And how I can better manage all around.

I see things now too. I understand my own limitations and know when I need to step back, ask for patience, and refocus. I no longer allow excuses to run my life and own up to my challenges.

I have a long way to go, but I’ve found peace. I feel a part of a community and when I struggle, I can connect with hundreds of other women, employees, wives, mothers, and friends who know exactly what I’m going through. We don’t have a shared history of trauma to blame. We have a shared experience.