A drowning nomad...

Utterly lacking in inspiration of any kind, I reach for a beer and here I sit, writing. I'm not a big drinker, but the other day, to do some writing, I had to have a glass of wine first. I have never had to seek inspiration. It has always found me. Exuberant inspiration has always been my close companion. It's a little lonely without it. I'm not depressed really, I'm just not happy. There are things and people in my life that I love, but something is missing.

I know that if I continue to have to drink to access the free-flow of the universe that it won't be a good thing, so I will make sure not to latch onto that crutch.

I also know that I am not alone in this experience. As winter has thawed in Northern New England and humans reconnect everyone talks about how hard the winter was this year, and how life just doesn't feel quite right. I feel like I need a connection to something larger that the geographic place I happen to be living, but I don't know what it is yet.

This much I know...the other night I dreamt that I was begging someone to take me away from New Hampshire. Begging as if begging for my life to be spared. Begging through a web of grief. I pleaded with them that I had to leave, because I was so sad here. But I don't think sad is the right word.

I lived 35 years as a nomad and now my limbs are bound to more permanent tent stakes.

The first time I moved, I was almost 4 years old. We left New Hampshire and traveled on an airplane, the first of many bicoastal yearly trips that we would make. I wore a red dress that my Grammy bought for me. We left our family behind. Our sprawling, intricate network of family, branches that stretched across the years and geography of the Northeast. We tore up our roots and we left. One uncle lived near Seattle and we were going to his house. I thought that the plane would land in his yard; the airport surprised me.

We had one layover, during which my mother had to take our cat, in her carrier, into the bathroom to clean her up because she had pooped on herself. My father had our tickets and accidentally got back on the plane without us. We almost could not get back on the plane. You cannot live a day with ADHD and not experience it in a palpable way.

For years after this, I dreamed that I drowned in my red dress. That I fell into a deep lake, surrounded by cartoon seaweed. I gently landed at the bottom of the lake and could see above me a circle of people watching me die. Sometimes the lights of an ambulance would appear, wavy through the water above. No panic, no sound, just placid recognition of my separation from the world of the living.

After moving out of my uncle's house - we didn't stay there long - we lived in one house for a few years, and then we moved into an apartment in the same city, I think so my parents could save up for a house. After about 5 years in that city, we moved to another, when my parents finally purchase that house. And we were there for 7 years-ish until I left for college. Where I lived for 4 years and then left...and then went to California for 6 years and then left...and now I have been here in New Hampshire for 6 years.

And here I am.

What is home? My sister says that home is where the heart is - she's quite literal in her interpretation, she means your heart that is beating in your body and any ethereal qualities and feelings it may contain. That scroll is tattoed right on her body; a reminder. Or an insistence that belies uncertainty...?

My new household is much different from the one I grew up in. And though parts of New Hampshire are imprinted on my soul like that scroll on my sister's leg, it does not feel like home. What IS home? WHERE is home?

To frame this as ADHD is to trivialize the purgatory of my tethered heartstrings. To frame it as the product of my parents' likely ADHD is irrelevant. I am here now and we will not move for at least 15 years because our children are still in school and their mother lives here too. Even if we buy a house (sometime in 2065 at the rate we're going) it's going to be right near here somewhere.

Every frontier has an end, a horizon where you see the dots of civilization and remember what it feels like. I have spent my life reassured by its existence but avoiding capture. And I've found new frontiers through stepmotherhood. But this is no consolation for a loss of freedom of movement.

I don't know how to get home. Maybe I've never known. My life has forced me to a definition. And I'm resisting, oh I'm resisting.

Mothers' Day

I started this post on Mothers' Day. The title was not Happy Mothers' Day, but not because I'm not happy. Life is pretty good. It's just that I wrote it more as an unfinished thought than as an exclamation of certainty. Mothers' Day is far more complex where stepmothers are concerned.

I got my first Mothers' Day gift that week. Last year, the children were not sure if they were supposed to, or not, and that was just fine. I've never had two "mothers" before and as such, I respect that they have an experience of our family that I will never have. That experience is theirs to interpret.

This year, they interpreted that I should certainly receive gifts, and they really worried about getting me the right "thing". For the record, I was not worried about it. They could have given me a dead bug (not out of the realm of possibilities with this crew) and I would have graciously accepted the offering.

The littlest, for whom, I think, it's less odd to have had a new mother-type addition to his family (he was 3 when I met him, after all) brought me a little plant that he grew at school, and a card that he made. He'd apparently gotten distracted while writing his name in it because he forgot the last letter.

The middle told me, in distress, that he could not make me a Mothers' Day present in class because his teacher told him he couldn't make one for me. It was a time issue, they just didn't have time to make two in class. I reassured him, of course, that this was not a problem and I completely understood and was not worried about it. I just wish his teacher had known how much distress this had caused him. It's got to be so hard for kids to get used to a new family and to him, this was clearly a VERY big deal. He would also not have time to make something for me at his mother's house because...that would just be awkward. In the end, he picked me a nice flower in the yard: perfect.

The oldest was also very intense about the gift issue and was worried about what I might want. I told her that whatever she would like to give me would be perfect. She made me a big BIG card that was very pretty and clearly very thoughtfully made.

Best gift: the kids have clearly officially decided that I'm part of the family. Cool.

Bacon...it's REAL BACON

If you ever wondered what the frig I'm doing in that photo on the right hand side of the page, I'm eating bacon. Real bacon.

Good news! Adults don't have ADHD!

No seriously everyone, this is so great! I just got new insurance coverage and when I took my new card to the pharmacy, the pharmacy was told that they can't refill my prescription for 18mg Concerta because a) I'm over 19 so I can't have ADHD and b) because I don't exist, because you know, adults don't have ADHD and I haven't been taking this drug for quite some time now, I have to get prior authorization from my prescriber. You know...the one that wrote the prescription? The prescription that says "hey, my patient is 35 and has ADHD and needs this medication".

I am SO not joking right now. This really just happened.

The pharmacy sent a fax to my "doctor's office"...but I don't know if that means the mental health center (aka my REAL doctor's office for the past two years, who actually deal with me on a regular basis) that prescribes all of my medications and who clearly are aware that they have "authorized" me to take Concerta, or the PCP office that doesn't prescribe it, that, if contacted is going to go "Yeah, I guess so, I mean we've never treated this person for ADHD because they go to a MENTAL HEALTH CENTER FOR THAT but the patient did self-report that they take it and showed us the bottle...so does this count as pre-authorization? And can we get extra cheese with that?".

Hey insurance company--no wait, let me get more specific, hey ANTHEM BLUE CROSS HMO BLUE NEW ENGLAND--FUCK YOU.

FUCK. YOU.

FUCKYOU!

Sheesh.

At least there's good news in there somewhere: there's no such thing as ADHD if you're over 35! Which must be why I feel bitchy, volatile, and probably disproportionately reactive about the whole thing. Because I don't have ADHD, and didn't just about cry in the middle of the pharmacy.

Because people pretending to have ADHD over the age of 19 are what's wrong with America's healthcare system. MAN, I'm so glad they just called me out like that and refused me my medication, I mean people like me are really taking advantage of the system. It's not the unhealthy lifestyle choices of the majority of Americans that are screwing insurance companies out of their bottom line, and making insurance coverage suck for everyone else, it's people like me, in generally good health, PRETENDING TO HAVE ADHD.

FUCK YOU ANTHEM!

Update to the ADHD diagnosis criteria

I'd like to add:

Does subject's life feel like a broken record?

File under: I like THIS about our household

If you had one million dollars and nothing better to do with it, I would bet YOU a MILLION dollars that my oldest and youngest step-children are the ones with the ADHD, and the middle one, though he may seem like an ADHD stereotype at times, is not.

Granted, the oldest is already diagnosed and really doing well with her stimulant medication as a helper so she's not really the focus of this demonstration (just comic relief).

The youngest is still very young and there's no need to visit "treatment" or "diagnosis" at this time. But I recognize the signs. He vascillates between total absorption and total lack of anchoring in a way that to me, is charmingly familiar.

The middle on the other hand...is a rambunctious, energetic and at times, frankly, a bit hyperactive 7-year-old boy. But let me demonstrate a difference or two...

Dinner with the 7-year-old boy: involves chatter, involves questions, involves energy, but also generally involves eating. Dinner with the 5-year-old boy: hey, lookie, there's a bug on the wall, oh look, I'm wandering around the kitchen for no reason, wow, how'd I get hyperfocused on that goldfish cracker, hey, now I'm handing it to my step-mother because I know she likes the color orange. Hey can I have some ice cream? Are you going to eat more dinner? What? Oh...I forgot about the chicken nuggets somewhere between jumping out of my chair 80 times and examining the crunch factor of my goldfish crackers. (Dinner with 8-year-old sister: wtf, eating is like such an inconvenience, I'm in a super hurry to be somewhere else, ugh, oh shit I squirted ketchup in my eye.)

7-year-old brother is generally able to hear and follow instructions. Will grumble about homework, and occasionally throw a cocky attitude around, but generally will do what is asked fairly efficiently, hears reason, likes to help with household chores (and will do them from start to finish). When you say to him "hey, next commercial break, you could run in, do a page of homework and run back out" he'll just go do it because it's practical and makes sense. Loves to ride his bike and skateboard, but can remember to finish things he's in the middle of.

5-year-old: want to set a record for the slowest Easter egg hunt ever? He's your man. He's so stoked on the Easter egg hunt that he'll forget what he's hunting for!

(8-year-old: OMG. GET OUT OF MY WAY, THOSE ARE MY FRIGGING EGGS AND IMA KILL A SUCKA THAT GETS IN THE WAY!)

7: If he's screwing around it's usually because he's making a fairly active choice toward jackassery and testing your limits.

5: If he's screwing around it's usually, not always, but USUALLY because he is on Mars. But he really likes it there, so lay off man.

(8: I'm WAY too anxious to give a crap about whatever it is you're telling me. Oh lookie, I forgot my meds with morning, even though Daddy handed them to me and they're still sitting there on the table, d'oh. Can't imagine--insert sarcasm--why I feel so anxious and crappy. Heh heh.)

I'm just setting the stage to explain to you the title of this blog post. I am, indeed noticing these things about the kids, and can't help but assume that 1 and 3 got the ADHD genes and 2 did not.

But in our house...none of that really matters. That's what I love about our house. We look at each child and adapt to the reality before us, instead of expecting uniform conformity at all times, across the board. Yes, we have basic rules...no jumping on furniture...we have consequences...you lose a bead if you...we have expectations....it's simply not okay to scream at other people, regardless of your spot on the neurodiversity spectrum. Everybody's got things they're good at, things they need to work on, and choices to be made.

I expect to remind the 5-year-old about 80 times during dinner to please sit his bum on his chair so he doesn't choke on a goldfish cracker, and I know to expect that his daydreamy approach to genius is highly entertaining and really extremely bright. I expect the 7-year-old to test limits, for whatever reason, but I do really appreciate it when he shows what a good listener and hard worker he can be, because that's something he's able to do (and it shouldn't be taken for granted). I also expect that when 8-year old is feeling anxious or overstimulated by her surroundings, she's going to act like a crabby jerk...and will need to be reminded again that the crabby voice is not the correct one to choose when making a request. Also appreciate when she makes better choices. And I don't mind using creative methods to make homework easier to focus on, or giving her breaks to air her brain out.

Whatever the reality in front of us is, we try to just accept it...and work to make it a more pleasant and productive experience for everyone involved. Nobody's bad or good, just different.

File Under: And I'M the one with the ADHD diagnosis?

My boss does crossword puzzles during staff meetings because it's easier for her to hear what people are saying when she's busy doing something fairly mindless.

I guess it's a tale of two coping mechanisms. Me, I generally just have to pop another meth-tab because the staff meetings fall right when my meds wear off, lol. Within 10 minutes I'm no longer fidgeting and can miraculously "hear" what people are saying. Also like the body relaxing. Nice. At least for those of us who don't find crossword puzzles relaxing, there's drugs.