I rambled a lot in my last blog post.  It was hard to read. I apologize.  I’m not that great at being precise.  I like details. I like background information. I want to think that I’m explaining in a way that anyone could understand.

But in my defense, there are A LOT of ADHD symptoms I suffer with. And I know I missed some.  I kept adding to the post and adding to the post and adding to the post.  I couldn’t stop. I had been working on that post for a couple of years…I had a lot to say.  I still do.  I won’t stop talking until more people understand and stop stigmatizing us. Normalize talking about disabilities.  Normalize EMPATHY.  Step in my shoes for a day, heck, even an hour will be enough.

I am lucky to have a lot of people in my court, helping me, cheering me on, advocating for me.  I’m also learning to advocate for myself, that’s the WHY behind my long-ass post. I want to feel more accepted.  I want others to feel more accepted.  I want girls with ADHD to get the diagnosis’s they need to get on a treatment plan that works for them.  The sooner the diagnosis, the better the chances of them living a fulfilling life instead of feeling like a failure at every turn of the road like I have. It’s been a long road and mine is still ongoing. I have to learn to retrain my brain to erase the negativity I’ve heard my entire life.  I have to start over.   

"Everyone is a little ADHD."

Actually no.  Everyone is not a little ADHD.  Yes, sometimes you forget your keys, or lose the remote, or lose track of time.  But that does not make you ADHD. 

That has been one of the many “helpful” things I have heard since my diagnosis 10 years ago. “You just need to try harder.” Ok, how about you tell that to the paraplegic about walking.  It helps them as much as it helps me.  “But Liz, that’s not the same thing.  They can’t help that they can’t walk.” Yeah, and I can’t help that my brain doesn’t brain the same way yours does.

In the time since my diagnosis, I have done a lot of research and a lot of soul searching.  It’s been a struggle understanding all the ways I am different.  It has helped make a lot of my childhood make sense, but also made me mourn the childhood I could have had.  The education I could have had.  The grades I could have had.  The organization in my life I missed.  The social connections I missed.  I have felt different and as though I didn’t fit in most of my life.  I never understood why people shared looks with each other after something I said or did.  I still don’t.  It’s hurtful, but I don’t know how I can change that.  I will probably never understand people’s behaviors towards me.  Facial expressions can be lost on me.  Social cues can be lost on me. Jokes can be lost on me.  I am awkward AF. 

I never fit in.

 

I’ve been socially awkward my entire life.

 

Getting my diagnosis at 36 was HUGE for me!  My entire childhood suddenly made sense.  The more I read about it, the more lightbulb moments I’ve been having.  I was the oddball but didn’t know I was.  I didn’t really feel it until middle school.  8th grade was when I started to notice that I didn’t really fit in with anyone.  That year I was noticeably bullied. 

 

I was the kid in kindergarten who learned the lessons quickly, then got bored and went under the table to play with the carpet (and luckily, I had a great teacher who understood what I was doing and allowed it as long as I was still learning)

 

I was the kid in 1st grade who never completed all the work and had to stay in from recess and stay after school...and still wouldn't’ have it done, but I did have a tally for my mom as to how many bugs flew in and out of the windows.  This was probably the first year I was given the “lazy” label.  “She’s far too intelligent to be doing this poorly, she must just be lazy.”

 

I excelled in math and science (when the topics were of interest), and absolutely failed at writing and lecture classes. Hands on is definitely how I learn, which is why majoring in Art makes so much sense for me.   

 

7th grade was when kids started calling me names, but I didn’t think much of it.

 

8th grade was the year I realized I was different but didn’t know why.  Three girls in my Social Studies class made me aware of that. Thanks, mean girls.

 

I was super outgoing until that 8th grade year, I used to introduce myself to new kids to my school, and I thought I was making friends easily...it’s one of those things that I wish I knew, but I’m glad I didn’t.  I wonder how much more awkward I would have been if I had known.

 

I grew up not completely caring what others thought of me, but I also didn’t know that I should care. Not fitting in hit me hard when I was in my 20s and 30s.  I had groups of friends, but I never really felt like I fit in. And looking back, I really didn’t. I would hear coworkers making plans for happy hours but was rarely invited. I joined a softball team, and even though I did have a couple of close coworker friends on the team, I still felt left out. I was just weird and didn’t know it. I was probably that kid that people made fun of behind my back, and thankfully I didn’t know it.  Not knowing how to fit in and not knowing why I didn’t fit in was probably one of the best things for me, I didn’t get hurt.

 

My brain thinks in the literal, concrete, black and white.  Abstract ideas are difficult.  Getting my art degree has been a struggle, and I’ve failed classes because I took the assignments too literally.

 

My executive function won’t function well enough for me to get off my ass and clean.  I see the mess. I know I need to deal with the mess.  I WANT to clean the mess. But I can’t get up and actually get it done. Which in turn makes me feel like a lazy asshole.  I feel like a useless lump most days. 

 

My eating habits have gotten much worse in the past year or so.  I go through 2-3 gallons of milk a week.  I try to eat.  I want to eat.  DJ tries so hard to get me to eat an actual meal.  Some days it works, others not.  I’m still in the middle of the “healthy” weight range for my body size and type. I keep snacks to graze on which helps most days, but I know I’m not eating enough.  I don’t like to chew.  My jaw gets tired.  Or I decide it doesn’t taste good.  Or I just get bored with eating.

 

Therapy helps, but I still have a long way to go

 

ADHD is not just a matter of not being able to pay attention or being easily distracted. It’s a frontal lobe issue. It’s executive functioning issues.  Its finding and keeping motivation for tasks that aren’t of interest.  It’s hyper focusing on one task for hours and being unable to switch gears to something else. It’s being socially awkward, and unable to read social cues.  It’s really wanting to get up and clean those dishes, but not being able to.  It’s doing the dishes, but as soon as someone else acknowledges it, anger appears and you no longer want to clean.  It’s hating the mess but hating yourself even more for letting it get that way. It’s being embarrassed to have anyone over, so you just stay alone all the time.  It’s not wanting your family to know just how bad it’s gotten.  It’s being tired. All. The. Freakin’. Time. It’s getting super overwhelmed and over stimulated and not being able to deal with it.  It’s exploding into a temper tantrum because you can’t regulate your emotions. And it’s different for every single person out there with ADHD. It’s having other mental disorders co-morbidly. I’m still on the hunt for proper diagnosis’s so I can get the treatment and support I need.

 

My ADHD manifests itself in many ways.  I’m a rude interrupter.  I can’t always read body language, facial expressions or social cues.  I say or do things that I don’t know I shouldn’t be doing or saying which then causes people around me to look at me weird all the while I don’t understand why. I don’t have that little voice inside me that stops me before verbalizing things on my mind.  I’m an over-sharer.  I will tell my life story to anyone who will listen.  I don’t realize I’m getting too personal.  People get embarrassed for me.  It’s like my train of thought leaves the station before the conductor even realizes it, and by then it’s too late to stop. I get overwhelmed by tasks very easily.  I let daily tasks go for too long.  I forget important things all the time.  I have alarms set to go off every 10 mins from wake up until I leave for work or school to keep me on task, and sometimes even that doesn’t work. Bills rarely get paid on time. I lack motivation to do pretty much anything most days. I’m tired all the time.  I can take a 6-hour dead-to-the-world nap and still be absolutely exhausted.  But at bedtime my brain won’t shut up and it keeps me awake until way past midnight most nights.  And that’s if I’m lucky enough to actually fall asleep.  When I finally fall asleep, I crash.  Hard.  Makes it almost impossible to wake up to an alarm.  I have time blindness, and task paralysis. Tasks take longer than I think they will, so I never allow enough time for anything, and that’s if I can even start the task to begin with.  I was late to work pretty much every day when I worked at the preschool.  I was lucky to have bosses that understand, to the point they made jokes about it.  It took me years to find a job like this. And then the pandemic hit and I was furloughed (and eventually laid off) and home all day every day.  My “I can do it tomorrow” hit me at all time high. I knew I didn’t have anything going on the next tomorrow and the next tomorrow that I just kept putting it off until my place is still such a disaster that I’m too overwhelmed to start. Everywhere I look there are piles upon piles of just crap. Everywhere.  I put something down and say “fuck it”…

 

I have weird clothing sensitives.  If my socks don’t fit me perfectly, I get frustrated, even angry sometimes.  They can’t slouch.  They can’t twist.  The toes have to be in the toe spot, perfectly aligned.  The heel has to fit in the heel spot.  I have been known to pull my socks off and throw them across the room in a rage because they aren’t fitting the way they are supposed to. 

 

I hate hair in my face or touching my neck.  Not just one random hair, but all of it.  I have to either have my hair up or tucked behind my ears to keep it off my face.  I get mad when I’m doing something, and it falls in my face. I tend to chop my hair most often in the wintertime out of frustration of everything it gets caught in.

 

Sweatshirts that don’t stay up when I push up the sleeves, another thing I have been known to rip off and throw across the room in a rage. I purposely have a certain zip-up sweater on the back of the chair on my art desk that has the good kind of sleeves that push up and stay up so I can be warm while I art. 

 

I don’t like my hands wet or touching wet things.  Wet cotton squeaks.  Cotton balls squeak.  I can hear it and feel it. Moving my socks from the washer to the dryer kills me some days. 

 

I hate when I hurt other people’s feelings.  I will replay the event in my head for years. Even after everything is deemed ok.  I pride myself on being nice to everyone.  But because of my inability to know what the right thing to say is, I inadvertently say hurtful things.  And people don’t tell me because they assume I did it on purpose.  I promise you I didn’t. I’ve started telling people this to give them a head’s up that it could happen, and I want them to let me know if it does so I can correct it.

 

I’m constantly looking for approval, probably from a lifetime of feeling like I’ve been letting others down.  A perceived slight can affect me for days to years.  Another reason why I thrive on being the nice one.  I don’t want others to hurt the way that I've been hurt myself. Being given constructive criticism in front of others can cause me hurt and shame. My dance teacher used to correct my movements in the moment, which she should because it’s easier to remember rather than later, but it made me feel singled out and embarrassed. Some nights I held back tears for even the smallest corrections. I ended up quitting dance because of this. 

 

I’ve heard all the suggestions.  Sticky notes.  Making lists.  Setting alarms. Apps. Setting more alarms. Do the same thing every day to form a routine.

 

Sticky notes become invisible after a while.  Lists disappear into my piles. Alarms get ignored. Apps never work. Routines don’t exist in the ADHD world. I can do the same thing every day for months, then one day I forget a step and the routine is fucked.

 

When I talk to people about why I did the thing I did (or didn’t do the thing I was supposed to do), and I’m told to stop making excuses and just do the thing. I’m not making an excuse, I’m explaining why. I’m tired of trying to explain myself.  I wish people would just understand and stop judging me. ADHD is too misunderstood by the average person and so many people just refuse to listen or learn. 

 

“ADHD was created by the pharmaceutical industry to push pills.” “ADHD isn’t a real thing.” “People use ADHD as an excuse to get legal meth.” And the worst one, “Adults can’t have ADHD, children grow out of it.”  I wish I grew out of it.  In actuality, ADHD symptoms get worse as you get older.  Hormones affect how well your meds work.  I’m lucky to get a couple of good weeks a month. The rest of the month almost always goes to shit. And don’t even mention what menopause is going to do to me.

 

The government makes getting our meds difficult.  They have classified the meds as “controlled substances” and I have to jump through hoops every single month.  I can’t even request a refill until I’m almost out of meds, and then I’m expected to remember to refill before I take the last pill.  I can’t refill my meds using the pharmacy app, I have to call.  My psychiatrist must recertify my meds need every 3 months or I can’t get any more.  We’re treated like addicts. We get accused of being drug-seekers when we have to call multiple pharmacies for meds when the government causes a med shortage. It’s not like my ADHD is going to go away. This is a lifetime disability. And yes, it is considered a disability by the ADA.

 

I’m tired. I’m tired of the hoops. I’m tired of explaining myself.  I’m tired of struggling. I’m tired of the chatter in my brain. I’m tired of feeling like a useless lump. I’m tired of the looks I get when talking about my struggles. I’m just so fucking tired of being tired.

(The font throughout won't match up and I have no idea why...)

 

 

Crap, crap and more crap.

I tripped over one of Dixie's toys again.  You'd think I'd learn to watch where I am walking, especially knowing that she leaves her toys everywhere.  And it's not like she has anywhere good to leave it as I have my crap everywhere...even if I were to train her to put her toys away.

I bought some new storage containers that are stackable at an attempt to get more of my crap off the floor and up out of the way.  It worked...kind of.  I really need to buy out The Container Store.  And probably move somewhere that has an actual kitchen.  My "kitchen" is also my living room.  My "countertop" is also my coffee table.  My "pantry" is anywhere I can find an open spot for my food.  No amount of stackable boxes would help with that issue.  Shelves would be nice, assuming I had open wall space to attach them.

I wish I could say that moving into a bigger place would alleviate the problem...knowing me, I would figure out a way to fill that place with crap too...

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My mom needs a shovel...

This is my mess.  Well, this is a small portion of my mess:

I've been home sick from work this week and my mom stopped by to check on her "baby" and bring some supplies.  She was instructed to make no comments about the mess.  I am very, very embarrassed about my mess.  I don't invite people over for this reason.  I tell people that I'm a hoarder, but I honestly don't think many people actually believe me.  And I never give anyone a chance to really find out as I refuse to let people see this mess.  Well, there's a photo of my mess.  Hi world, see my mess?

My mother was good about not commenting.  Except for one.  She said she would like to bring a shovel and help me clean.  See, to her, this is a mess and most of it can be tossed in the trash.  But to me, I can justify everything on that pile.  Every. Single. Thing.

That empty box?  I'm saving it for when I move so I can put my HK grill in it.  The black bag?  That's my dremel that has no shelf to live on.  Those empty grocery bags?  They are my trash bags, with nowhere to store them.  That shelf on the top right edge of the photo is full of stuff.  That pile of clothes sits on top of more completely full storage containers.  My couch has sadly become a storage area.  Purses, jackets, stuff for work, my quesadilla maker, and lots and lots of stuff from school--artwork, text books, framed photographs, a box of photographs.  Pillows, my robe, all of my cameras, piles and piles of mail, pads of paper, markers...all without a true home.

Behind the couch is my dog crates, kane-dog's has stuff stacked on top.  The only reason Dixie's is clean is because she chews anything I put on top.  Except for the vacuum attachment, which I've recently started storing up there.  The treadmill behind her crate, yeah, it's got stuff on it too.

My two sets of shelves are full.  My two closets are full.  And it's not like I have a bunch of useless junk either.  One closet is full of clothes that I wear.  All of it.  The other closet is storage.  Winter coats, pet supplies, my ski boots and rollerblades, stuff like that.

Ok Mom, bring the shovel.  I challenge you to not only help this hoarder organize, but also to find places for everything without a home.  I'm creative and I'm really good at puzzles, but this is one puzzle I can't seem to figure out.

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The stuff that haunts me...

About a year and a half ago, I celebrated my 34th birthday.  My sister was gracious enough to host a small gathering at her house.  While there, I opened some birthday cards from friends and family, some from the party attendees and others that I had recieved in the mail and brought along with me.  I have a habit of not only keeping the cards, but keeping the envelopes the cards came in.  My friends and family put thought into those envelopes (at least in my mind) when addressing the cards to me.  Some used my nickname, some had to write out my address and their return address, and some decorated the envelopes with doodles and/or stickers.

My sister is very aware of my "problem" with keeping stuff.  As well intentioned as she thought she was being, she wouldn't let me keep my envelopes.  And here it is, a year and a half later and I'm still thinking about those damn envelopes that I didn't get to keep.

And speaking of lost "stuff" that haunts me, back when Dave and I lived in our first place, we were doing some tidying in preperation for our move to our house, and he threw away my license plates.  They weren't just any license plates.  They were from my first car.  And they were imprinted, not like the plates of today where the letters and numbers are just painted on.  I shouldn't care about these stupid plates, but yet I still think about them every so often.  Wishing I still had them.

This is why I have a really diffictul time throwing anything away.  Will I regret it later?  Will I still be thinking about it 5, 10, 30 years from now?  Better safe than sorry, keep it.  Let it add to the piles I've created.  If my piles get too big, I can always take a load to the storage unit.  That's what the unit is for, right?  To keep "stuff".

People don't understand how difficult it is to toss stuff away, unless they are hoarders themselves.  That's why when Kate, or Dave, or even my mom threw some of my "trash" away, they thought they were helping, but in reality, they were making things worse.  The only person that can toss my stuff is me.  I have to make that decision.  Me.  Not you.  While I appreciate the offer and I know everyone is well meaning, it's not helping me.  I end up collecting more things to fill up the hole that was left from my missing stuff.

So I started reading a book last night.  Stuff, by Gail Steketee.  Gail is a professor of human development or something (I could probably look it up to get my facts correct, but that part is irrelevant for now) and she did some case studies on hoarders.  This book is the result.  I read the first chapter and was able to relate to a lot of what "Irene" (Gail changed all the names for privacy) had to say about her stuff and why she keeps what she keeps.  I'm looking forward to reading the rest of the chapters, but a little frightened that I'll see myself in others studied in the book as well.  As I sit here typing this, I'm looking at my couch that is currently covered with my "stuff"....and I can justify every. single. thing. on it.

At least I'm aware I have a problem, right?

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You know you're a hoarder when...

Everyone that knows me by either growing up with me, or watching me grow up, knows about "lizzy and her messy room".  It's been a running family joke.  I'm thinking an intervention could have helped around the time a mouse discovered the hidden bologna stash under my bed in the mid 1980s.  Mom had thrown it away, I found it in the trash and not wanting to be wasteful, I took it and hid it...where it was promptly forgotten about. Until said mouse found it again for me.   The mouse walking under a piece of paper woke me from a dead sleep and I woke up the entire family with my blood curdling scream.

It's too bad that hoarding wasn't a known issue back in the 80s or 90s...maybe we could have gotten to the root of the issue and put a stop to it much earlier.

I think I realized that it was much more than just a messy room a few years ago.  I was researching OCD to see what other "symptoms" I had besides just the eating finger foods in twos (my coworkers loved that one), not liking people touching my stuff and a few other oddities.   This OCD website mentioned that hoarding is another symptom of OCD.  I always thought that OCD meant extremely clean and organized, never realized that "collecting" could be considered obsessive.  And boy, do I have a ton of collections.  I can pick up anything in my room or storage unit, and justify why it needs to be kept.  "It was my first (fill in the blank)", "It could be worth money some day", "I didn't want to throw it away because I hadn't used at all yet", "It was the picture that (name any preschooler I've ever looked after or taught) made me"....I watched an episode of Hoarders a year or two ago and it really hit me...I actually could feel exactly what they were going through and why they were shedding those tears as they were being forced to rid themselves of their "junk".

I've decided to put my thoughts on hoarding into a blog so that maybe I can better understand, as well as everyone else.  I sometimes have a really difficult time putting my thoughts into words when first asked, and I honestly get tired of people asking me "why don't you just toss/donate/sell your crap?"  If it were that easy, I would have a nice and tidy living space right now. 

This won't be a daily or weekly or regularly scheduled blog...just when something hits me that I feel the need to get off my chest...and, seeing as though this is my very first blog, be fully prepared for it to suck.  :)

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