I'm a starter. I have big ideas. I get excited. I act on those big ideas before they get cold. I pour my heart into them. Then I get bored and leave them for something shinier. I'm a crafter, a knitter, a sewist, a felter, a linguist, a Spanish teacher, a social worker, a clinical therapist, a decorator, a web designer, a singer, a potter, a Facebooker, an activist, and probably a hundred other things I can't recall at the moment but which at one point I have called myself.
I've pretty much gone with the flow ever since I can remember. I do things intuitively. Rules are flexible. I'm messy. My bills are always late unless they're on auto-pay. I rarely send cards for birthdays. I'm horrible at keeping in touch. I love deeply. I feel things intensely. I need alone time. I get overwhelmed. I watch five hours of one-hour-TV shows at a time. I have a hard time exercising or keeping a clean house. I can accomplish a lot more than most people in a short period of time--if I love what I'm doing. I can put nine hours in on a ten-hour project, then never come back to it again. I can also put on a party that will send guests home wondering "how in the hell did she sew thirty children's costumes, plan a scavenger hunt, fill 100 chicken eggs with confetti, and bake a huge dragon cake while nine months pregnant?" I'm capable of crazy feats. I buy things that are part of my plan, then forget about my plan and end up with expensive items like a floor buffer, a lawn irrigation system, a plastic bag sealer, and other equipment taking up space in my garage. Last month I convinced myself that I was capable of giving myself bangs. I gave myself a terrible mullet that made my hair stylist go apoplectic.
A couple of weeks ago, I was diagnosed with ADD, Attention Deficit Disorder, and I'm in the process of reframing my whole sense of who I am based on this new context. I've been experiencing relief, while questioning whether my personality is actually my own or some result of being wiggy in my prefrontal cortex. I've been wondering how it took me until age 38 to ask a doctor if she thought I might have ADD. It turns out I might not be the lazy, apathetic, disrespectful, impulsive slob I believed in my core I probably was.
You mean I might not be deeply flawed? How did I think this was just who I was for so long? I thought I was a person with irreparable character flaws. In school, I wrote essays on books I only pretended to read cover-to-cover, and usually wrote them at the last possible moment. I procrastinate! I lost one friend after we shared an apartment and I was too messy for her--she took it as a personal offense. My first husband (a man from Spain and a mindset where attention to housekeeping equated love) was convinced I didn't love him because I couldn't (wouldn't) clean. I have carried so much guilt for being a slob and so much shame for being lazy, unable to force myself to do things others could. I crave a neat and orderly environment but it always seems to morph into messy chaos a few days after cleaning.
I have a husband, two little boys, a dog, cat, and home that I love. My job as a SAHM is not easy at all, and I beat myself up about it too much, but with this new info about myself I have a new context. I'm actually really excited to start group sessions in a couple weeks and learn more about myself and how to finally come up with better strategies for dealing with those things that don't keep my attention.
I'm looking forward to dancing with distraction in 2013. I'm gonna waltz with this motherf*cker until we cut a rug!
(Right after a good night's sleep.)
