The Document of Distraction

Hello Reader,

This post is very different from my others, because it's more or less unfiltered and very raw. Through my study of ADHD and the endless amount of self reflection I do on a regular basis, I have begun to understand my mind in new ways. While I know I'm not unique in my diagnosis, I do know that it's difficult for me to explain what my experience is and what I go through on a daily basis. To me, finding ways to "show" other people what is going on in my brain is really important, because I've never had the words, time, or understanding to accurately explain it to myself. I was reflecting on this, when I found this document that I had written a week or two before I began my medication for ADHD. I was in a bad place during that time, my ADHD was frustrating me, because in my work, I was beginning to see just how much it was holding me back from being who I wanted to be. So in my frustration, I wrote what is below, and as you can probably tell by the tone I used when writing it, that I was at the end of my rope, and running out of answers. It's fascinating to me to read this, because it's so different from who I am now on medication, and yet I still understand it clearly, almost like seeing a very old, favorite outfit that you used to wear, out of style, but still "you" in some way. I don't know what I hope to accomplish by sharing this, but every piece of me wants to, so I will:

Hello world. This will be my document of distraction, a record of easily memorable moments of my own thought. I will do my best to write in this as often as I can, but I highly expect my attention for such a task will diminish before I am finished. I am hoping to show those who do not understand my condition, what it feels like to try and have a normal day at work, or at a social gathering, or even just standing in front of a mirror as my first post will demonstrate.

Time elapsed during internal conversation: 30 seconds. 

What I was doing beforehand: Using the restroom while watching a TED Talk focused on ADHD. The speaker gives the prompt, “Say you love yourself in a mirror,” and the following internal monologue is as exact as I can get to my own tumult of thought.

“Okay, look in the mirror and say you love yourself,” This thought was interrupted halfway through by,

“This is really silly.”

“A Lot of things I’ve been doing lately to help my ADHD are silly, just look in your eyes for once,” This thought was interrupted halfway through by,

“Hey, this is just like soul gazing (a story mechanic from the book series “The Dresden Files,” which I am a fan) Jim butcher was right, staring in someone else's eyes does kind of draw you in.” This thought was interrupted by,

“No, no, no, no, no, look at yourself and do the thing you said you were going to do, which was……”

“Say you love yourself, got it.”

“Why can’t I say it?” this thought was interrupted by, 

“It’s because you really don’t love yourself,” This thought was interrupted by several thoughts at once, which is what I have started calling an "attack”

[Start of attack]

“You look tired,”

“You look sad,”

“You look ugly,”

“I don’t look ugly, that's just a negative thought that I’ve had so many times that its instinct,”

“None of this matters, just look,”

“I’m starting to cry, am I really crying or just crying for affect?”

“This exercise is harder than I thought, why can’t I just say it.”

“I’M SO AFRAID OF MY NEXT CALL, I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHO ITS WITH,” this thought caused a derailing panic which prompted me to look down at my phone and check the time. I then reminded myself that I had already taken the notes I needed to have the conversation and that I didn’t need to do anything else to prepare. I look back at the mirror.”

[End of attack]

“All I see is someone who is tired,”

“All I see is someone who doesn’t get the recognition he deserves for how hard he works.”

“Everyone gives you recognition, you just don’t give it to yourself.” This thought was interrupted by a scene, which happens a lot to me, I’ll be talking to myself in my head, and then I will imagine myself saying the words I’m thinking to someone else, and then imagine their reply.

(In the voice of my boss, as if I’d been having a conversation with him for some time and this was the apex of such conversation.) “Why don’t you give yourself that kind of recognition?”

“Because I’m smarter than this, and I know I could be doing better.” This thought was interrupted by,

“I wonder if they’ll give me an IQ test at my doctors appointment next week?” This thought was interrupted by,

“No, that's a counselor or psychiatrist thing, also it doesn’t really have anything to do with ADHD,” this thought was interrupted by,

“Maybe when I ask for some kind of ADHD medication, they will tell me I need to go to a Psychiatrist,”

“No, all those tv adds for this kind of thing says, ‘talk to your doctor to see if ______ is right for you!’”

I walked away from the mirror at this point, thinking about my doctors appointment next week. Anyone reading this, please let me know, how am I supposed to do anything right when I can't do a simple task like telling a mirror that I love myself? 

I never went back to this document. I have had a thousand moments like this one. I had one while organizing this post. From reading this, I understand that my medication doesn't make this stop happening, it just makes me more equipped to pick out which thoughts I should listen to. At the time I wrote this, I had the mentality of "help me, I can't handle this." Now, I feel like I can handle it, but that it also slows me down, makes me too sensitive, and makes me react with panic rather than a level head. 

In many ways, I'm glad I wrote, lost, then rediscovered this document, because it gives me some insight into what I go through, because it's just as confusing to me as it is to others. If I look lost in thought, confused, frustrated, or ask "sorry, what did you say?" mid-conversation, this document shows where my thoughts are. This is very important, because as you can see from the last line of the "Document of Distraction," when I get lost in thought, it usually ends with me being angry. And I'm not angry at the people around me, nor at my job, nor at the ADHD. I'm angry at myself. "How am I supposed to do anything right when I can't do a simple task like telling a mirror that I love myself?"

Rethink Your Hate

Rethink what you hate before it is too late.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about hate. It's something we all have the capacity for, and anytime you have a discussion about hate, you usually get some sort of saying that comes along with it, like, “sometimes we hate things that we really love or need,” referring to people we have crushes on or unattainable goals. My personal favorite, and the old standby for teachers and parents, “hate is a strong word.”

For most of my life, I thought hate wasn’t a strong enough word. My capacity to hate, from childhood to early adulthood was limitless. I hated certain foods. I hated certain chores. I hated the grocery store, and shopping for clothes. I hated how my skin and hair didn’t look like any of my friends’. I hated my absent father. 

Out of everything, I got the most hate out of that last one. I had never met my father. Until recently, I hadn’t bothered to even find a photo of him. It was so all-encompassing that the very thought of him would put me in a vindictive and evil mood. 

I believe it all stemmed from moments in my childhood. As a boy, I had no concept of anything other than my own family dynamic. There was my mother, there was me, and in my mind, that was all that a family consisted of. Around that age where I would go to friends’ houses and play with them, I’d meet their families, and to my surprise, many of my friends had fathers. It didn’t matter if they were their biological fathers or their step fathers, or their father that they saw on weekends sometimes; they all had them. I think it was around this time that the questions began to form in my head. “Why don’t I have a dad? Why can’t I go on fishing trips, or wrestle in the living room.” I asked my mother about him, and to my adolescent mind, her description of a smart, devoted and loving man who had fallen from grace from the temptation of drugs, had painted a picture of an evil man, who had deprived me of any hope of a father-son relationship. That evil man, the man who was not there, became the first thing I truly hated, with all the conviction that can be mustered by an ignorant child.

 I see that this hate fostered more hate in my life. When I reached my teenage years, it had become a fixation of mine. I’d day dream of seeing him on the street, and hurling myself at him with kicks and punches. I’d dream of him coming to my school and picking me up, and when I’d lay eyes on him, I’d scream, and tell him all the reasons I truly hated him. I kept all of this hate to myself however. I’d imagine most of my close friends and relatives had no idea how much this hatred revolved around my life.

When I was finishing up high school and starting to look forward towards college, my hatred waned enough for my curiosity to set in. I sent him an email, secretly. I received a reply instantly. The new message must have sat in my inbox for a week before I dared to open it. I read it one afternoon on a whim. It scared the hell out of me. The man on the other end of the line sounded exactly like me. The way he thought was the way I thought. He said things that I had said to myself in my own head and never articulated. 

From pure contrariness, I never replied. It was my own form of revenge I suppose. But then new questions began to form. He sounded like he’d wanted to be a part of my life. He sounded like he knew about me and accepted me. I had new questions for my mother, and we reopened an unspoken chapter of both our lives.

I understood then what my childhood self could not. Things were not as simple as I’d thought they were. I discovered that while I had been bitter about his absence, I had never considered what life would have been like with an addict father. My mother had. She rescued me from a life of betrayal and heartbreak, at least until I was old enough to make the decision for myself.

It took me two years to call him. He answered, and I panicked, saying “I’m sorry, wrong number.” He called back, and then I had a conversation with him. He didn’t talk like I did, but he sounded like me. He told me the words I didn’t know I needed to hear. “I’m so glad you didn’t grow up with me around. I would have made your life hell.” 

He told me he’d be on the next flight over if I wanted. I told him no, and that we should talk again, and see where things went from there. That was the last time I spoke to him. 

I called again with no answer. He never called me back. After that, hatred radiated off of me like steam. I began lashing out at people for no reason. I would have people tell me I’m clenching my fists for no reason. Still, I told no one of any of this. It was my secret pain, and I held on to it like a drowning man clings to a raft. 

Six months passed, and the hate never faded, but it did drift to the back of my thoughts, only surfacing when I wasn’t distracted. My mother sat me down, and almost from nowhere told me that she thought my father had passed away, tears in her eyes. My first thought was that of an immature and self-tortured child. “It serves him right!” I screamed inside. All of my hate felt justified and revenged, just for that one moment. Then my brain started to work again. He had passed a few months prior, shortly after my call with him. He had succumbed to cancer. He had never had the opportunity to call me back. All that hate I had felt. Was any of it deserved by him?

It’s been a while since then, about a year. I was sitting in my car, thinking of that first email I had with him. He had told me, “there is so much I want to tell you about, me and yourself.” Now that he’s gone, he will never have the opportunity to tell me what he meant by that. My blind hate and vindictive mind made a decision, based purely on ignorance and pain. Because of that decision, I will never get to know what he had to tell me. I do not wholly regret my hatred or my reaction to his absence, but I wish I would have been mature enough to look at that hate, and rethink who it was really directed at. My hatred towards my father had always been a hatred towards myself. I had used his absence as a way to justify my unhappiness, instead of searching in myself for what was making me unhappy. I made my decision and I must adhere to it; I have no choice in the matter anymore. I urge my friends and loved ones to rethink their hate. Some of it will always be justified. I still hate shopping for clothes and I probably will until I die. On the other hand, some hate is born from loss, or pain, or fear. I urge everyone to look at that kind of hate, and really decide if it’s worth holding onto. We always think there is time to rethink things later, but time can run out when you least expect it.

Excuse me, do I belong here?

To preface this piece of writing, I have to tell you that there is still sweat on my brow from this experience, and my fingers shake as I write.

Today, I spoke with a woman about my race. I did so without thinking about it very much, as one does when they are walking and talking. I spoke words I had never said aloud, and they were words that almost stopped me in my tracks. Today I said, “everyone I know calls me black, but I’ve never called myself black.” There was a beat in my mind as the woman, my teacher, nodded, seeming to understand the statement more than I did. The conversation lulled slightly but we kept walking, speaking of it, but not with the same gusto and strength. She said “see you later,” and I fumbled out words I thought sounded like a goodbye and walked away. As I walked, I looked into the eyes of a man with the same skin color as me. We locked gazes for a second, then walked past, without a word. What had just happened? It was as if I was questioning every second, “what do you see when you look at me?” I continued walking and caught the eye of a girl with pale skin and a great deal shorter than I. She looked away quickly. Was she uncomfortable? Why?

This went on for a long while, and it started to feel like no matter whose eyes I looked into, there were just more questions and statements. I walked into the library and stood, staring at the elevator door. I stared for a long time. I felt something inside me tugging me away. I couldn’t stand the feeling. I left without ever having pressed the up arrow. I knew where the multicultural center was, on the second floor of the Student Union. I walked there quickly, my eyes on the ground, looking up only to see the staring eyes of strangers. I walked into the building and huffed it up the stairs quickly, turned right, and then I saw the room.

The multicultural center was like any other room in the building, just bigger, and more spacious. I took a few steps forward and looked inside. People inside were my skin color, some much darker, some much lighter. I looked at them and saw them busy conversing or studying. I don’t know why I walked there so fast. My feet had just carried me. The oddest sensation I had felt all day was looking into that room and feeling a push against me. Everything in my being said leave. It said you don’t belong here. You aren’t the same. I felt uncomfortable, so much so that I walked out and back in twice. The receptionist gave me a look and I looked back. I opened my mouth and almost said it, the words I had been thinking for the past five minutes… for the past twenty three years. “Do I belong here? If not, where should I go?”

I didn’t ask that. I walked out into the hall and rushed away, finding a quiet corner and sitting, and here I still sit. I thought writing this down would help me figure out where I belong. I don’t belong outside, in the public, among those who know who they are and where they fit. I don’t belong inside a center for people who look like me. So where am I supposed to go when I want to feel like I’m not alone? Please someone, tell me. Where do I belong?

Being Gray

I remember when I was much younger, most likely in fourth or fifth grade, when the topic of slavery would be brought up in school, everyone in my class would turn and look at me. They had varying expressions on their faces; mostly worry that the very topic of slavery would upset or anger me, being the only one in the room with a darker complexion. Others, I think, simply looked at me because they didn’t really understand the larger concepts, about why race was important or why it could make others feel bad. When I tell that story, many people gawk at the insensitivity of the students in that class. They comment that their parents must be racist or the children must have been taught to be wary of people of my skin color.

I’ve tried to never think of it that way. It could have just been an uncomfortable subject after all. The thing that has always worried me, however, is the fact that I feel nothing toward those topics, events or stories. They are horrible events, of course, but I don’t feel a sense camaraderie with those who had been forcibly taken to the New World or subjugated during the years following.

I suppose I’ve never felt black. To me, being black is a term that others have pushed on to me over the years. I certainly didn’t feel different until somebody put that label into my mind. However, when I was told what I was, I still didn’t feel any different. Growing up with a single white parent makes things like race seem so blurry and non-corporeal. I’ve always just identified as me, and nobody else.

In the outside world however, I began to realize that I was indeed looked at differently than others. People at school considered me to be threatening in appearance and most gave me a wide berth. Department store owners kept their eyes on me whenever I walked in the door. Clerks at jewelry stores would assume that I wanted to look at the least expensive pieces of jewelry, and frown when I asked to pick up necklaces that I thought would make a good mother’s day present.

Everywhere around me, I was being judged for being something that I didn’t feel like I was. I didn’t feel threatening or up to no good, and yet, I was treated that way, and after all of the feelings of resentment and adversity, I still felt no attachment to the others of my race. We went through the same things, the same prejudices and judgements, and yet I am not one of them in my heart. As I grew and learned more, I began to realize that I had no place in this world of race. I wasn’t white, I wasn’t black, so what world did I belong to?

It took a long time to realize that I wasn’t the one with the problem. The word race was the problem. It’s very existence is a way to divide, segregate, and categorize the people of the world, and it is held in the hearts of everyone on this planet. By taking into your heart the idea that race exists, you take in the concept that something about human ancestry makes us fundamentally different, not just in appearance, but in how we should expect to be treated.

The moment I accepted that I was black, I began to see the world as though it were a grid. Some people receive privileges “x” while other people are entitled to privileges “y”. I accepted that those with lighter skin were allowed to judge me for my appearance. I saw those at school as justified in being wary of me. I allowed myself to be followed through stores. I let those things happen because I believed that it was how the world was supposed to function.
This is an arbitrary line that has been drawn around us by every past generation, and the thing that is truly most terrifying, is that we, as a people, chose to redraw the lines around ourselves every day. If I had never been told I was black, what would my life be like today? Maybe I would respect and admire cops, and not fear them. It's possible I would scold those who try to profile me instead of numbly accepting it.

For me, it’s too late however. I know the consequences. The world has trained me well to be subservient and docile. I fear what cops will do to me if I step out of line. I dread being profiled, but I do nothing to stop it, and when I have children, what will I say to them? If I don’t warn them of the dangers of having their skin color, what will happen to them? Is it right to stand up for your values, when it will be your children who suffer for it? No. This system will repeat itself, even in my home, because I refuse to send children into the world unprepared for the prejudice of others, that was ironically installed in them by the idle actions and subtle ignorance of older generations.

If together, we could throw away these lines of segregation we have made for ourselves, maybe we could see an era of peace and tranquility. Imagine a world where having a black president wasn’t groundbreaking or revolutionary? Imagine a world where you wouldn’t question whether or not the cop that arrested you did so out of racism. It seems so easy, so why is it so hard for us to achieve?