A Day in the Life of My ADD

Author’s note:  The caps, exclamation points, italics and bold are an indication of the volume of my own voice screaming inside my head. 

Here’s how it went:

I read an excellent and informative paragraph on DEA classifications of ADD meds (posted on a message board) which concluded with, “When taken orally at the prescribed dosages, these drugs have great medical value and rarely produce any sort of high. But make no mistake, they are narcotics, and do carry the risks thereof.” Because I was not able to successfully process that information, my brain focused on the word “narcotics.”

I got all excited, looked up the word “narcotic” to confirm what I thought I knew, and got agitated because the ADD drugs are not technically narcotics (which are the opiates, belladonna, heroine, etc.). I got further worked up because I couldn’t understand why, when the author clearly knew so much about these drugs, s/he would make such a mistake. I was completely mystified by this and it was a VERY BIG DEAL! I tried very hard to figure out a way to post to correct this ERROR! [an example of the way my brain processes in extremes and absolutes]

As a result of lessons hard learned, I managed to hold off posting until I’d had a chance to think it through, but holding off was a physical challenge. I kept leaning toward the keyboard and pulling myself back.

About this point, I took my Focalin because that’s where I was in my morning routine and it’s what works for me.

It finally dawned on me that use the of the word “narcotics” was probably shorthand for “drugs, which if misused, have a high potential for addiction.” Having figured that out, I would like to have been able to let it go at that point. What meds do for me is that I am more often able to do so. However, not in this case.

Instead, my brain took off on “But what if someone reads it and DOESN’T UNDERSTAND! What if someone who might be helped by meds doesn’t try them because they get the WRONG IDEA! I have to do something about this!”

At this point, my rational brain kicked in and responded with, “Bullshit. No you don’t. It’s no big deal and you’re probably the only one who had trouble reading the meaning. Besides, you don’t have to be in charge of the whole world.” Again, this should have been the end of it. However, this time, it led to cognitive dissonance so bad that I was rocking in my chair and my hypnotherapy breathing techniques kicked in.

The agitation continued, but I continued to fight the urge to blurt. Even with the meds, I knew I had 50-50 odds of this going on all day. I gave serious consideration to going away from the board for an extended period to avoid dealing with THIS ISSUE which had grown to such vast proportions in my head. Intermingled with all this were terrible feelings of shame and alienation.

Finally, as the meds began to ramp up and I continued to do all my calming things, the physical agitation let go (although my odd interpretations were still niggling at the back of my brain). At that point, I found that I was hungry, thirsty and feeling exhausted, which are symptoms I have observed in dogs post-seizure.

I’m a high-functioning ADD person (and have the test results to prove it) and this is how it happens for me.

ADD and Me

I should be somewhere else doing something else but I’m afraid that if I don’t write this down right now, I’ll forget. Again.

I see a neuropsychiatrist for migraine management. This particular practice deals primarily in head trauma and ADD/ADHD, but they’ll work with migraineurs as well and I happened to know a number of the folks there, including one of the doctors, through proximity in my former office complex, so they see me.

Dr. G. develops his own testing models and then rigorously tests them for veracity by having his staff and some-well known patients take those tests. Since they know me in a casual social context as well as knowing me as a patient, I got to take lots of tests. I hated them, but I was willing to help out.

A little less than a year ago, I finally asked for official testing and diagnosis for ADD. I suspect they’d been waiting for me to ask for some time. I took the test and I did quite well, but I was an anxious wreck for the rest of the day. A few days later, I took the drug and took the test again and the difference in the results was amazing. So was the lack of anxiety about it.

I asked about whether the difference was simply that I’d become familar with the test. They reminded me that I’d taken variations on that test many times before and was already familiar with it. They also pointed out the difference not only in the scores but in my response.

I tried the first drug. It had side effects which were not good. I tried the second drug. It was worse. I decided it wasn’t really that bad and I could keep on coping as I’d done all those years.

Since sometime in 2003, I’d been riding the drama-llama rollercoaster, with events over which I had no control (other folks’ disease and death–stuff of that nature) and that, combined with age, left me with insufficient strength to keep doing what I’d been doing. I tried another drug. Focalin, in case you’re curious.

That’s when life began to open up. I’m still working on finding motivation without panic to drive me, but I’m getting there. It’s also okay now for me to learn about my interaction with the world, so I’ve been reading sporadically about ADD.

One of the criteria for adult diagnosis is that the ADD should have manifested in childhood. I was a little concerned that maybe the diagnosis wasn’t quite right because nobody in the practice had explored that part of my history extensively. That might mean that I didn’t have “true” ADD and my use of Focalin was “cheating.” Hey, that’s how I learned to think. However, I’ve kept with the drug because these folks, in addition to their testing, have had plenty of time to observe me in both clinical and non-clinical settings.

I decided to contemplate my own youth and see what was there. “Does not pay attention is class.” “Is not working up to potential.” “Quit jiggling–you know it annoys your father.” “Don’t be so damned impetuous all the time,” my father’s favorite.

The more of these I recall, the more comfortable I am with my diagnosis and treatment. I’m not bad. I’m not a slacker. In fact, given what I was working with, I did one hell of a job of working up to my potential. It’s going to be okay. Of course, I still write run-on sentences.