Child free

 People wonder why I chose to not have children. It all comes down to the fact that parenthood is the most important job in the universe and I recognize that I am not up to the job.

I've never understood the love affair people have with children.  Childhood is just a stage of life; it should be made as carefree as possible but not entirely so, because how else will you learn to withstand adversity? Love is not enough to be a good parent, it also takes money and lots of time.

When you grow up the child of a single mother, watching her frustration as she fought to earn enough money to put food on the table or a roof over your head; when she never had any extra money so you could take advantage of opportunities that would probably benefit you later in life, such as extra tutoring for a subject you didn't quite understand or one you were very interested in but they didn't offer at your school; or money to buy new clothes instead of having to wear ill-fitting hand me downs until they were threadbare........always having to hear, "No, we can't afford it. No, we don't have the money. No, not now; maybe for your birthday or Christmas.....".

When you spend years watching your mother having to do without things that she wants because every spare cent goes to paying past due bills or fixing a car that is long past fixing; when you're too embarrassed to invite your friends over because your mom can't afford to feed them too or you're too embarrassed for them to see where you live. My Mom was wonderful and did the best she could for me, but I could see how she struggled.

When you live your life thinking that you're never good enough, that nothing you ever do is right; that you're selfish for not wanting the responsibility of having children because truthfully, you're too mentally ill to be a good parent and you're smart enough to recognize that fact; that you must think you're "getting above your raising" for wanting to travel and have a few nice things, things that won't immediately break or fall apart because they're not good quality. If that makes me selfish, then selfish I am, with no apologies.

Now Roe v. Wade has been repealed, a fact that fills me with fear for my younger sisters in their childbearing years. We're going to have to go through the "Women's Lib" protest all over again. The government has determined that women are not reasonable or intelligent enough to dictate what happens with our bodies. They tell us that the only thing we're good for is being mothers and maids. Bullshit.

This country is regressing.

More Than Average

 I am taller than average, bigger than average, and I weigh more than average. I have thick long dark blonde hair that is slowly turning gray. My eyes are blue/green/gray, depending on my mood. I have a very direct stare that I have been told can be intimidating. I have a smallish nose that is turned up at the end and thin lips. I have high cheekbones and pale skin, which is beginning to take a southward journey down my face.

My teeth are somewhat discolored, but they are straight. I have the Turner family wattle under my chin that will not go away, even with targeted exercises. My shoulders are broad and I have large full breasts that sag much more than I like. I have long arms and small musician hands.  My waist is non-existent. I have a flat ass and muscular legs that seem to benefit from exercise more than the rest of me. My feet are average size. The second toes on both feet are crooked and I have a dead nail on my right big toe.

I sometimes get compliments on my hair and eyes. I do have "resting bitch face" so I try to keep a pleasant expression. People used to ask me why I looked mad, or sad, or tired. Like many women with body dysphoria, I feel a disconnect between my mental picture of myself and what I see in the mirror every morning. If I need confidence for any reason, I skip looking deeply in the mirror.

I have been the poster child for self-loathing for most of my life. Even when I was dressed up, I only looked "OK" in my estimation. No one ever made a big deal about my appearance except for the fact that I dress for comfort, I don't look girly enough for most people in the South. Since I've been working from home, I don't bother with makeup unless I have to go out somewhere. I'm a personality type, rather than a good looks type. I would love to be one of the  self-confident "I know I'm fantastic" types, but I'm not. I cannot even imagine what that's like.

Time Marches On

 Why do I get so depressed on Sundays, even if I get to go somewhere and do something fun? Lately, it seems to be time pressing on me more than before: my husband and I talking about retirement coming up soon, my friend starting to have age-related problems with driving, my health, the current political situation, and my innate fatalism are most of the issues. How can I make peace with getting older without "giving up", as it were? I have regrets. I've been too scared most of my life to really go out and experience it. I never drank or did drugs, I was never brave enough to try starting a band, I never got into trouble, I mainly stayed in my room, inside my head, listening to records or reading. My imagination was vivid enough to comfort me while I was isolated.

I have to admit, I'm envious of some of the wild episodes my school friends indulged in. They sowed their wild oats while young, and then settled down to raise their families.  I suppose that I've always wanted to "fit in", yet the thought of that horrified me. I'm different and that should be OK. Still, a warm and comforting base would be so nice to have when I get tired of raging at the masses.  I liken the thought to being able to troll people from your mother's comforting embrace or a little kid staring out of the back of car, sticking her tongue out at you.

I don't mind getting older, I just mind being old and unhealthy. I know how many of my friends and relatives talk about how they're dealing with aging parents and most of the time. They're entering an extremely difficult phase in life and I sympathize. I took care of my Mom when she was dying and I was not bitter about it at all. I spent as much time with her everyday as I possibly could. 

I would have been absolutely no use to Mom or anyone else if I didn't have something else to think about during that time. My mental state was bad enough to start with. Mom would not have wanted that either. She would have known that I would be miserable and she never wanted that. Mom never had a problem with my needing so much "alone time", but members of my family sure did. They made me seem selfish, like I only cared about myself and no one else. The opposite was true: I cared too much probably about everyone except myself, and being alone was the only respite  I had. My college classes also helped;  it was something else to think about while I had to watch my Mom die before my eyes and I could not do anything about it.

The Plain Blonde who Plays Along With You

There was a young mechanic that worked at Lance during the terrible period in which I worked there. All of my co-workers lusted after him; he was handsome, quiet, and did his work very well without drama. I wasn't particularly attracted to him, but he was nice and seemed interested in me. He used to flirt with me during our conversations, which was flattering, and sometimes I would flirt back. This incensed Slim, a very skinny older co-worker. 

Slim had worked at this company for many years. She probably weighed 80 lbs. soaking wet and sported a hairnet over the cloth turban she wore everyday. She was the "elder" of the Lance production line tribe. All of the women on the production line deferred to her.

One evening, the mechanic spent about 30 minutes hanging around my machine talking to me. Slim stared at us with a comical frown on her face. At break time, she sidled up to me at the vending machine and tapped me on my shoulder. I smiled and greeted her.

"Hi, Slim. How are you doing today?". 

Slim peered into my eyes. "Girl, why are you flirting with that boy?", she sternly queried.

She stood in front of me with her hands on her hips, her head cocked quizzically.

I was surprised at her question. You needed permission to flirt? What the hell?

"Well, he was flirting with me and he's a nice guy. What difference does it make? He's not married and I'm not married, so I'm just trying to be nice".

 I was only 21 years old at the time and had not had a boyfriend to speak of yet. 

Slim looked sadly at me and shook her head. Her bony finger pointed at my face. 

She whispered, "You're way too plain for a good-looking man like him. He needs a pretty girl, not a heifer. No offense."

I looked at her astonished and chuckled. Heifer? Really?

She had always been nice to me until then. I thought it was ironic that a wizened, bony old woman with maybe 4 teeth in her head considered me to be "plain". I was amused at her assessment. My sense of self was still pretty strong despite being constantly at battle with my ego. I wasn't a super model, but I wasn't plain, either.

"Slim, I own a mirror. I know what I look like; I don't need you or anyone else to tell me. Mind your own business." , I replied, amused.

I looked impassively at her, not wanting to start a fight, but also not wanting to put up with any bullshit, either.

She stalked off back to the machine she was supposed to be running. Slim never spoke to me again in my last 6 months at that job. I would get eye daggers whenever I talked to the mechanic, though. These looks didn't kill though; they merely kicked you in the shins when you didn't expect it. The whole episode was a funny anecdote during a trying period in my life.

Lily and Beastmaster

The last place in Dallas we lived in was a two story brick duplex. My husband and I lived in the bottom part and there were a constant stream of tenants upstairs, who would usually move out when they realized that the police would be called if they had loud parties at all hours of the night. It had previously been the male tenants who caused the most issues with noise, so we were glad to see two young women move in upstairs. The girls owned two pugs, curiously named Lily and Beastmaster. Those dogs barked at everything; it didn't matter what it was. The wind could be blowing too hard and they would bark at it. Whenever anyone knocked on the door or drove into the driveway, the dogs would yap almost insanely. 

Far from being annoyed, I was glad they were loud because the lack of a fence separating our yard from the alley made me paranoid. Our bedroom window faced the alley and I was always worried. about someone trying to break in. These dogs could be a burglar alarm for us as well as the girls upstairs. 

The duplex was in a "trendy and upcoming" (aka starting to get expensive but still very sketchy) neighborhood and there was a very small back yard with a dark alley in back. Unfortunately there was no fence to keep anyone from walking right up the alley to the back door, which entered into our kitchen. That door had three locks on it, just in case.

One cool day, I had burned some popcorn in the microwave, so I opened up the back door to allow the acrid smell to escape. I was startled by the two pugs in the back yard, barking fiercely at me. They were so rowdy, I had to shut the back door so they wouldn't attempt to come inside. I love dogs, but I didn't know if they would bite.

I wore old-style hard contact lenses then and after I took them out and cleaned them, they had to soak in their solution for 4 hours before I could wear them again. I was blind as a bat and I didn't have any glasses to wear in case I needed to see clearly.  My lens prescription was so strong I could only afford contacts OR glasses at the time, not both.

One night, I had cleaned my lenses and we had both gone to bed. We were just drifting off when we heard noises right outside the bedroom window.  A sudden snort startled us both fully awake. 

My first thought  was that I wished those dogs were in the yard now so they would bark and scare any intruders off. The girls upstairs couldn't leave them in the back yard since it wasn't fenced. I looked wide-eyed at my husband and he looked back at me; was someone fixing to break in? Was it a rapist or a pervert? Had he been spying on us through the bedroom window? From the sound of it, it must have been an asthmatic rapist or pervert from all the snorting and heavy breathing going on. Maybe we wouldn't have to fight him very hard before he passed out. The night was so dark we couldn't see anything out of the window, so our minds were running riot. I imagined a scary, gasping dude armed with guns, knives, and maybe hooked up to an oxygen tank.

My husband and I quietly got out of bed and crept toward the kitchen. I had recently purchased a Three Stooges-sized meat cleaver at a local restaurant supply store, so I took it out of the drawer. My husband slowly eased the back door open a crack. We were sure that we were going to have to confront a wheezing crack head right on our back doorstep. I summoned my inner Moe Howard and brandished the cleaver, ready to bring it down on anyone we found lurking outside. A hot rush of summer breeze blew in our faces. There was nothing there. 

Then the barking started. Luckily for us, it was only the pugs.

The pooches had been let outside to relieve themselves and I guess the girls forgot they were out there. The wrinkly-faced pups barked, growled, snorted, and gasped breathlessly at us. We both exhaled. The relief was immense. It was a very warm summer night and the poor things must have been out there for a while with no water. I filled a bowl with water for them and they slurped it up fast. The girls then came downstairs to fetch them.

 After that night, those pugs never barked at us again. 

New blog

 I have a new blog about being diagnosed with ADHD as an older adult. It's called ADHDME and it's here: ADHDME

This blog will still be my personal writing blog, so bookmark both please.

The Perfect Retirement

 In my dreams, I would actually get to retire, rather than work until I drop dead. I would have enough money to move away, since I've never lived outside Texas. I would move to Henderson, Nevada or Las Vegas, My dream retirement would involve Nevada, mainly because the cost of living is cheap and it's close to California. Not to mention the fact that although it's in a a desert, there are mountains that get snow every winter, several national parks nearby, plus it has beautiful canyons and an international airport.  I'm not enamored of the Strip like people seem to be, I don't gamble or drink much at all, but Vegas has every kind of food you can imagine to eat and most things are open 24 hours a day. and the neon lights are pretty.

I think I'd like living in the desert more than in a forest, because there are fewer bugs and low humidity. Dry heat IS a thing, folks. Anyone who's endured a sweaty Texas summer with 90% humidity that makes your clothes stick to your body and your makeup run in rivulets down your face will know why dry heat is better.

If I could not afford to move to Nevada, then I'd just move back home to Dallas, where I'd be closer to my friends and family. When you start getting old, proximity to people you know well takes a more important place in your life. Nevada is probably more an "ideal situation" type of retirement, rather than  what will actually be waiting for me in a few years. Hell, Nevada may be completely out of water by the time we could afford to move there.

A perfect life after retirement in the desert would include lots of thrift shopping, selling the stuff on Bay, drives to California, two cats, more cooking, more choice in restaurants for Sunday dinner, writing a book, and enough money to fly back to Dallas on holidays to see friends and relatives who cannot come out to Vegas to visit. Having enough money to travel a bit internationally would be fabulous.

More than likely, my Dallas retirement will consist of lots of thrift shopping, selling the stuff on Bay or in yard sales, hanging out with friends and family, lots of reading, taking part in "Friendsgiving", more cooking, writing a book, and two cats. Since most of our friends don't have kids and are getting older like us, we could all keep an eye out for each other. Sounds pretty nice.

Adult ADHD

This year, I started treating my newly diagnosed ADHD with talk therapy and a small beginning dose of Adderall. I take it only on workdays because they help me focus and concentrate at work. I was told not to take the med on Saturday and Sunday so that any chances of addiction would be minimized or eliminated. The Adderall doesn't help with crushing anxiety. The ADHD that explained so much of my personality and the way I think sits uneasily atop my wild anxiety like a toddler on a bucking horse.

I was very sad yesterday and burst into tears. I haven't cried in months, probably. I was overwhelmed with a sense of impending doom, like death and/or destruction was waiting for either me or my husband just outside the door of the seafood restaurant in which we were trying to enjoy our lunch. A creeping dread wrapped its tentacles into my brain and didn't let go until the evening. Maybe I was just generally overwhelmed. I've had episodes in the past where I was sure that some maniac with a machete was just around the corner or an out of control car was barreling down the street in my direction. I hadn't had one of these episodes in a long time, though. It was similar to a panic attack.

Although most people have an inner monologue, I'm more accustomed to "this is your conscience speaking" episodes, where I'll hear disapproving (and purely self-generated) comments regarding my life or work in my brain as my attention is busy with something else. These episodes can prompt a full blown panic attack: accelerated breathing, a feeling of isolation and a rising sense of fear and dread. I can be busy at work with a pile of records to go though, then a little voice in my ear whispers "you're going to die young like your mother did". The hyperventilating will then start. 

Other hits in this Desolation Row juke box are "something bad is going to happen to you.....your husband....your friends and there's nothing you can do about it"; "you're not smart enough for this job"; "you're going to be fired soon"; "you're going to be homeless one day"; "no one really cares about you, people only tolerate you". Listening to music or podcasts while I work are really the only way I can keep those thoughts at bay. Having other people compliment me on whatever I am doing doesn't even help because I don't believe them. I can only believe myself and those positive thoughts just won't come. I don't know how to think positively of myself. I only know how to tear myself down. I had hoped that age would alleviate this self-loathing but it has not. I honestly don't know what will.

The episode with Morty

Two faded Southern belles named Faye and Noreen are sitting at the bar. A local journalist had found Noreen after asking some people about the club she used to work at back in the late 60s. Her friend Faye had told the reporter that her pal Noreen had loads of good stories about the place: the owner's Mob ties, drunk celebrities making asses of themselves, the one-legged go-go dancer who hopped around in a cage above the dance floor....

"Go on, Noreen, tell him that story about Morty........".

Noreen chuckles, rolls her heavily made up eyes and smirks.

"Oh jeez.........OK." She sighs.

"I used to work in a club in downtown Dallas, back when I was 19. The drinking age was 19 then so I had just started working there as a waitress.
The owner was this ridiculously short Jewish feller named Morty, who had originally bought the club from Jack Ruby back in the early 60s. Morty could not have been more than 5 feet tall standing on his toes. He was about 80-some odd years old then and used to follow the dancers around and have conversations with their tits.....you know the type: always on the make. Always pinching asses and so on. I was just a mousy waitress and not as bodacious as the dancers, so he pretty much ignored me until this one Saturday.

So, Morty asks me to come in early one Saturday to do some cleaning. I'm sweeping the floor in the dancers' dressing room and I hear the door close behind me. I was supposed to be the only one there, you know, so it startled me. I turn around and there's Morty, with not a stitch of clothing on. Stark naked, hands on hips with a big smile and a HUGE boner. 

Now..... I don't see how he didn't tip over. He must have been nicknamed "Tripod". So I'm standing there with my mouth open, staring like a damn deer in the headlights.

This tiny wrinkled old man with a giant prong is leering at me from the door. He winks at me.

"Good morning. I see you're here early today", says Morty, in his thick New York accent.

I stammered out, "Uhhhh, hi Morty, just sweeping up in here! Good lord, where are your pants? You'll catch pneumonia!"

Morty started moving in my direction so I barreled past him through the door, almost knocking him over. I was afraid he would latch onto my leg on the way out and start humping me like a dog. I threw aside the broom and ran out the back door.

He called me into his office the next day. I figured he was going to fire me. He sat behind his cluttered desk, took the cigar stub out of his mouth and smiled genially at me. I squirmed in my chair.

Morty said in his thick Brooklyn accent, "I want to apologize for yesterday. I'm afraid that I may have scared youse. My manhood has inspired fearful reactions befoah due to its awesome propoahtions. But errrr,.......maybe you're interested now that you know what to expect?"

"Uhhhhh, no thanks, Morty. I'll pass." I tried not to gag.

So, Morty didn't fire me. He didn't stop trying to nail me, either. He would have needed a bucket to stand on, anyway. I worked there for a year or so more, then I met my husband and we got married. Now my daughter is expecting our first grand baby." 

Noreen ended up marrying a mechanic. They lived in a little clapboard house in a suburb of Dallas where her husband started his own car repair shop, and had three kids, two boys and a girl. 

Faye says, "What are they gonna call the baby, Noreen? Have they picked a name yet?"

Proudly, Noreen says, "Yes! It's a boy, so he be called Stihl, spelled S-T-I-H-L, like the brand of farm equipment. Doesn't that sound masculine? His little school friends will think he's so cool."'

Faye is stunned. "They're naming that baby after a chain saw? His little school friends will call him Leatherface!"

 

Teen Age Crush

 Like a lot of young girls, I used to fall in desperate puppy love with various musicians: Paul McCartney and Peter Tork were a couple of my mental main squeezes. As I got a bit older, my tastes started to change. Puberty started to turn my world around, and although I knew it was going to happen, I wasn't quite sure how to deal with it. My childhood was tormented and I escaped into music. I was a huge fan of the Electric Light Orchestra when I was a teenager, mainly because of their drummer Bev Bevan. The crush started as most teen crushes do; I collected every picture of Bev I could find, I bought every ELO LP and I watched them whenever they made a US TV appearance. Luckily for me, they were a huge success in the 1970s, so it was fairly easy to locate pictures and articles about them.

Because of my childhood issues, puberty did not come into my consciousness easily. The thought of an actual male in my vicinity taking an interest in me terrified me beyond words. I felt much safer mooning over rock stars who had no idea that I existed. I wouldn't have any chance of actually having to deal with him in person, because he lived in England and I was in Texas; not to mention the fact that I was 12 and he was in his 30s at the time. 

Plus, everything I ever read about Bev was about what a fantastic drummer and a nice man he was; he was not some spoiled rock star poon hound. You never heard stories about him tearing up hotel rooms, being rude to fans or or going after too young girls. He wasn't Jimmy Page, after all.  That bit of knowledge made me adore him a little bit more; I never went for "bad boys". I wanted a guy who my Mom would approve of, one whom  I felt safe adoring and one who I knew would never hurt me. At 12 years old, I had already had enough pain and hurt for several lifetimes.

I used to read all the rock & roll magazines on the newsstand, so I was well aware of wild man British rock stars. To be true, most of them seemed that way. It was fun to read about Keith Moon destroying a hotel room or Ozzy Osbourne getting wasted, but I'm sure an entirely other thing to have to live with a situation like their wives and families had to deal with. I told myself that anyone who made the music I loved so much and made my life worth living for cannot be a bad person. I guess that makes me a rock and roll apologist.

For the most part, I think I've been right. Musicians in general are caring and sensitive people but they can sometimes find themselves in weird situations that most regular people would have trouble dealing with. That's where the drinking and drugging come in. Fame can exacerbate that as well. The public are largely ignorant of what it's like to be onstage in front of several thousand people when you have the flu, or have to come up with a hit record that's bigger than the last one, or to meet hundreds of people who all want a little piece of you because they saw you on TV or bought your record or wear your t-shirt. On top of all that, your band mates and crew also depend on you for their living. Yes, the musicians get the money and the fame, but they have to pay for it in ways you cannot fathom. Too many people saying "yes" to you too often and not enough saying "no" to you can kill you, ask Elvis Presley, or Jimi Hendrix or Janis Joplin or Jim Morrison or Amy Winehouse or Kurt Cobain or _______________ (insert the name of your fave member of the 27 club here).

I just know that if those guys didn't make their music that meant so much to me and others, I probably would have snuffed it when I was still a teenager. So for that, thanks to Bev Bevan, Keith Moon and Ozzy Osbourne for being great musicians and entertainers, and extra thanks to Bev for being a nice person.

Speed Racer

 I woke up wide-eyed this morning at 3:30am. Usually, I don't wake until 5am so I can start in on my day slowly, make coffee and watch the news and not have to rush. My eyes popped open and my mind was racing at full speed. When this happens (a lot!), it affects my ability to rest. I feel like I'm running on fumes today. My mind is like a horse in full gallop.

Maybe my ADHD is causing most of the depression I've dealt with for most of my life? It's so difficult for me to relax lately. In the past, all I had to do was read or meditate, but I cannot keep my attention steady enough to escape into a book for very long now.

Oddly, pacing back and forth in my house does quiet my mind a bit. I used to love going for walks in the neighborhood that surrounded my work place. Walking outside doesn't help now because I have to be aware of my surroundings. I need to put on my earbuds and lose myself in music. I need to make stop stalling and major changes in myself. 

I need to be creative and write more. I feel mentally constipated, if there is such a thing; like I have so much in my head that wants to come out but just will not.

This is not an ideal way to start my work week. I'm normally pretty keyed up on Sundays evenings because I have to work the next day, but it's on overdrive today. I feel like I'm trying to give myself a pep talk: "you need to eat better, you need to relax more, you need to write more, you need to start playing your guitar again, you need to avoid the news more, etc." I need to do so much, yet I cannot get started.

Why is it so difficult for me to be myself?

This Masquerade

   Many people were blindsided by COVID and the big shut down, but life had vastly changed in my favor by my being able to work from home. I had been asking to go remote for years, because social anxiety had been difficult for me in my job. Part of the world of work is going to meetings and being ambitious in order to "move up the ladder". I'm more comfortable and productive when I'm relaxed. I've always felt like I had to put on a "mask" to be around other people. I don't adapt to change quickly, and my work situation had changed radically a few years back with new co-workers, different duties, etc., but I was still doing work that I enjoyed and thought I did well, with people I liked.

   My chronic depression flared up seriously after the pandemic started; probably from the stress of life changing so radically in such a short time. I learned in my 20s that chronic depression is just that: chronic, and it can return without rhyme or reason. The trick is remembering that it's a disease that has to be managed, like diabetes or arthritis. I don't necessarily need to have a reason for being depressed. Sometimes, I just am. However, I'm much more able to deal with my dark periods as an older person. Depression made my 20s  (and to a lesser extent, my 30s and 40s) extremely difficult. I was hospitalized in my early 20s and have been on antidepressants pretty much ever since. 

  I have good periods when my life is enjoyable and bad periods when it isn't. At least now, I know that "this too, shall pass". When my initial problems with depression surfaced during childhood, I thought I was just crazy, that my brain was wired wrong. Maybe I was from another planet; who knew? I was able to keep up with my friends and my education, but the stress was beginning to wear seriously on me. For a long time, I wasn't a pleasant person to deal with. I thought I would grow out of it with age. 

  In the last 4 or so years, I had started having difficulties at my job. I couldn't seem to retain information about work subjects from meetings, felt that I wasn't performing my job up to my usual standards and did not want to fail my supervisor and my co-workers. I am counting on staying at my job until my retirement in a few years, so I knew I needed to sort myself out.

  I made an appointment with a neuropsychiatrist. Testing was done and three weeks later, I received the news: I was diagnosed with Adult ADHD at age 56. 

  My long-standing relationship with major depression and anxiety were no secret to myself nor anyone I knew. I thought I might even be on the autism spectrum, but ADHD never entered my mind, so to speak. I thought it was something that parents of excitable little kids had to deal with, not middle-aged women counting down to retirement. This was completely another thing to manage. 

 The psychiatrist suggested that I treat the depression first, then deal with the ADHD when I wasn't struggling so much. I started reading about ADHD in adult women. Apparently, the symptoms consisted of much of what I considered to be my personality: scattered mental state, unless the subject was something in which I was interested; daydreaming in school and not being able to retain information unless, again, it was a subject I liked, then I would excel. I hated math and science classes because they made me feel stupid. Teachers would tell me to "apply" myself in order to learn algebra or statistics or physics and I just did not want to know. Band class, History and English I would excel at. 

 I've felt like I've wasted parts of my life. I tend to compare myself to other people my age (and always come up lacking). and it seemed like most other people my age had careers that they liked, not jobs that just paid the bills. Most of my other friends and acquaintances seemed to navigate the world of work much better than I did. I'm very fortunate to have a great home life, with a wonderful husband and a happy marriage, so that took away a bit of the sting of being different.  When I left my house, though, I was bombarded with signs that I WAS DIFFERENT. I had my DNA tested; I researched my family history; I took every online quiz I could find in order to "find" myself. What was wrong with me? I know I'm smart and extremely creative, but I could not find a way to harness that energy to my advantage. I've only been able to be the "quirky and idiosyncratic" friend who mostly keeps to myself. Maybe this diagnosis will be my way out of my mental funk?

  I have to say that I don't feel like I need to put on an act in order to be around other people anymore. I can take that as a blessing, others may take it as a threat. Maybe it's just getting older and being tired of performing in order to be accepted. As far as what the kids call "adulting" nowadays, John Lennon was right; whatever gets you through the night is all right, even if it means escaping into your imagination where everything goes your way. I'm not a very sociable person, but I love my family and my friends, and I value their friendship more than I could possibly say. I have a strong support system to deal with ADHD and I am looking forward to getting to know myself.