Adventures in ADHD

A few months ago, a couple of articles on ADHD crossed my Facebook feed. One of them was this one, and it changed my life.

The odd thing is, I already had a diagnosis. I'd just never considered that it might still be relevant.

I was diagnosed with ADD (they made a distinction in those days) when I was about 10, I don't remember the year precisely. It was only picked up because my younger brother was your classic hyperactive white boy, and the diagnosing psychiatrist figured he might as well take a look at the daydreamy big sister as well.

I took ritalin for four years, but as I grew into teenagehood I began to resent it as one of the many things - strong working mum, gyprock kit home, avant garde childrearing, not using the titles Mum and Dad and, as I entered my mid-teens, now-divorced parents - that made me not normal. I wanted to be normal, and I didn't want to see the psychiatrist any more, so I stopped taking ritalin. I can remember that my Dad kind of shrugged; I don't even remember a conversation about it with my Mum.

When my grades collapsed throughout year 10, people blamed my parents' divorce and the disruption of changing homes and schools.

When I had to repeat year 12, people blamed me for not studying, with slight concession to the fact that I was being frequently woken by my baby sister.

When I moved out at 18 and almost immediately descended into housekeeping chaos, people couldn't understand why I was such a slob.

When I pulled high distinction essays out of my hat at 3am on the day before they were due, people asked me again and again why I didn't do things in advance, and it was like they were speaking Klingon.

When I entered the professional workforce and just could not cope with staying on task, I hid what was going on so carefully that everyone except my one archaeology boss and colleagues thought I'd genuinely had a change of heart about my career path, rather than having destroyed my dream career through misuse of work time, disorganisation, and the inability to deal with workplace behaviour.

When I racked up debt in my mid-20s people shook their heads and adjured me to be more careful.

When my housekeeping never got any better, people were embarrassed for me.

When I couldn't stay on top of things as a teacher, I covered it up again and again and loathed my disorganisation and laziness.

When I blurted things out or spoke too loud or babbled too much I thought I was socially awkward, and blamed myself for not being more restrained.

When I dropped and trod on and walked into and wrong-footed and couldn't organise my body in order to get things done, I thought I was clumsy, careless and hasty, and hated my body.

When I couldn't stop the endless desire to eat, I thought I was a glutton and despised my weakness.

That was the litany of who I was: careless, lazy, gauche, greedy, clumsy, hasty, incompetent, slob.

Not once, in all this time, did I ever ask, "Is this ADHD?"

Not once, in all this time, did anyone who knew I'd had the diagnosis ever ask, "Is this ADHD?"

I am angry occasionally, but mostly what I feel is bewilderment. Looking back, it's so obvious; I have no idea why I didn't figure it out. I just can't fathom it. I'm smart. I'm educated. I have access to a world of research at my fingertips and have done for nearly two decades. I knew I'd had the diagnosis as a kid. Why did it never occur to me to ask whether my complete failure to "adult" was simply a logical extension of the 10-year-old daydreamer with the messy desk tray and habit of staring through her classmates?

When I read the article I linked above, something finally clicked.

Then came a ten minute consultation with my GP.

An hour with a mental health nurse in which I sobbed over wounds whose pain I hadn't ever acknowledged.

Half an hour with a sweet, gentle mental health doctor, and a screening test in which my 'impairments' were laid bare in dozens of tick-boxes.

Two ECGs (the first one wasn't plugged in properly).

One blood test.

And then I was in the pharmacy holding a small green piece of paper with my sweet mental health doctor's instructions laid out in neat capital letters.

Methylphenidate.



I've been on it for just over two weeks now. At first, I was taking a dose in the morning and a dose at midday, necessitating the carrying of it in a miniature combi-lock safe during my work day. Now I'm taking the full dose in the morning, and in two weeks the dose will go up again. So far, concentration is a little better at work, housework has become astonishingly trivial, I've actually been to the gym, and I just don't care that much about food. Suddenly I'm cooking dinner every night (or organising one of the others to cook it) and taking lunch every day. Chocolate has sat uneaten in the cupboard and I don't even care. I can cook a whole meal without getting bored and wandering off.

It's weird.

IT'S WEIRD.

Is this how normal people experience life?


It's, um, pretty cool.

I'm Not His Mum.

I haven't posted on this blog for over a year and I don't think anyone actually reads it any more, so I guess this is a safe place to put this so that I can link to it when I need to.

Lately, a few friends have referred casually to my stepson's "two mums", or called me a "mum". I know this comes from the best of places - love for me, and genuine recognition of the effort I put in to my stepson's life. But it's really triggering, and also not true.

I can see why people might think it's all but true. I do just about everything that his mother does. I pay, I fetch and carry, I soothe, I feed, I discipline, I cook and prepare and wash and pack and find and entertain. I have been a full-time parent to him for four and a half years - well over half his lifetime and since before he can remember.

The reason why I'm not his mum is one that people don't like to talk about much these days. It's become very unfashionable to talk about a parent's rights over their child, and perhaps rightly so, as the focus has shifted towards the child's rights and the parent's responsibilities. But it remains true that the parents who are on the birth or adoption certificate have certain rights that non-parents don't have. Some of them are encoded in law, such as the right to make medical decisions, but most are simply by convention. The right to choose a child's school, the right to choose how a child is raised, the right to decide what behaviour or language will fly in our house and what won't, the right to decide a child's diet, and so on.

I am a lucky stepmum, in that my wife values my opinion in these things, but there is never any doubt that the decision is hers. Where our ideas and values clash, I have no choice but to give way, as I have no ground on which to negotiate.

I'm not his mum because I don't have the right to be.

If we were both his legal parent, we'd both be required to compromise over these things, but there's no requirement for compromise in this situation. She's his mother, I am not, and the decision is hers.

Thankfully, most of the things I would have vetoed or insisted upon are minor - changing into play clothes after school, or not saying 'bum' and 'telly', for example, Many of them are based in a class-culture clash that occasionally plays out between my wife's upbringing and mine. But they add up to a very glaring and obvious difference between 'mum' and 'not-mum'.

That's why, when people call me his mum, it hurts. Because I want to be someone's mum very badly, but I am not. Because I carry all of the responsibilities a mother has towards this child, but have none of the rights motherhood entails. Because he's not growing up with 'my child' stamped upon his being. He's my wife's son. I'm not his mum.

Songs of Longing

Just parking this here... may add to it. It's nearly the end of the school year, and I'm feeling tired and low. Feelings, I has them.

A Filk for a Saturday Morning

Said the little boy to the busy mum,
"Do you see what I see?
Way up in the sky, busy mum,
Do you see what I see?
A plane, a plane, flying through the sky
Can you see it, way up high?
Can you see it, way up high?

Said the little boy to the busy mum,
"Do you hear what I hear?
Coming down the road, busy mum,
Do you hear what I hear?
A truck, a truck, carrying a load
Do you hear it, out on the road?
Do you hear it, out on the road?

Said the little boy to the busy mum,
"Do you know what I know?
In your peaceful bath, busy mum,
Do you know what I know?
A wee, a wee, coming really soon--
Let me in, I need the loo,
Let me in, I need the loo!"

Said the busy mum to the little boy,
"Listen to what I say!
I need five minutes’ peace, little boy,
Listen to what I say!
Go play, go play! Let me shut the door
Just give me a few minutes more…
Just give me a few minutes more!"

101 Things To Do...

... that are better than dithering on the internet.

Evenings and weekends are hard. They're supposed to be - or rather, have to be - useful times. They're the times for getting things done around the house and in my life. Teaching is such a life-eating pursuit that these precious non-school times must be guarded carefully and used effectively.

The pressure to use them effectively is so great that I spend most of them dithering around on FB, GB and BtN, nattering to people and sharing interesting things.

Now, I'm not going to say that these are not valid ways to spend time, because I fundamentally believe that they have their place. Social interaction, when one's support network is spread far and wide, can only happen through such media, and it is as important a part of life as running into someone at the shops and having a quick catch-up. It's necessary and healthy.

However if I spend too long doing it, for all that I've enjoyed myself, I get a sense of life being eaten away. So I engaged in an act of meta-procrastination and made myself a list of things I could be doing instead. It's taken me hours, but I hope they're invested rather than frittered!

Some are useful, some are frivolous, some are impractical, but all are part of the useful, interesting life that's currently squeezed between school and "relaxing on the internet".

1.    Put a wash on
2.    Hang the washing up
3.    Fold washing and put it away
4.    Tidy a room
5.    Sweep the floor
6.    Scrub the toilet
7.    Do the dishes
8.    Deal with the rubbish/recycling
9.    Sort a drawer
10.    File papers
11.    Polish shoes
12.    Polish jewellery
13.    Clean the fridge/freezer
14.    Do a pantry audit
15.    Spot-treat the carpet/upholstery
16.    Straighten the books
17.    Clean the litter tray
18.    Write a kitchen/linen needs list
19.    Plan a meal
20.    Price a renovation/redecoration
21.    Choose clothes to donate/recycle
22.    Read the gas meter
23.    Take batteries down to be recycled

24.    Check bank balances
25.    Submit a useful form
26.    Register a warranty
27.    Send an email to someone
28.    Back up
29.    Clean up downloads/desktop/other files
30.    Tag old photographs
31.    Do a grocery order
32.    Make an album to have printed
33.    Defragment
34.    Remove useless software
35.    Book a holiday
36.    Phone a friend. Chat.
37.    Learn to use GIMP
38.    Pinterest useful parenting ideas
39.    Write & publish a blog post
40.    Read journal articles

41.    Write the book
42.    Plan another book
43.    Read a book/magazine about writing
44.    Write a short story/drabble
45.    Edit something
46.    Make a character profile
47.    Draw a map

48.    Sketch something
49.    Colour something
50.    Paint something
51.    Cross-stitch
52.    Mending
53.    Make a garb pattern/concept
54.    Embroider something
55.    Learn to cast on; practise
56.    Take photographs
57.    Teach myself knitting
58.    Make lacing cords
59.    Learn to weave

60.    Lift weights
61.    Go for a walk
62.    Go for a bike ride
63.    Do some yoga/pilates
64.    Stretch
65.    Meditate
66.    Dance around to music
67.    Plan a long walk
68.    Go geocaching

69.    Play with the cat
70.    Read a book/magazine
71.    Put photos in frames
72.    Scrapbook recipes
73.    Learn Italian/French/German/Spanish
74.    Journal/reflect

75.    Practise the flute
76.    Practise the violin
77.    Practise the recorder
78.    Compose something
79.    Arrange or transcribe something
80.    Research and save sheet music

81.    Weed the garden
82.    Mow the lawn
83.    Prune
84.    Sweep the back porch
85.    Clean the windows

86.    Transcribe names
87.    Write up name articles
88.    Write a persona piece

89.    Research a new family tree member
90.    Backtrack and add details
91.    Upload genealogy photos
92.    Catalogue family photos

93.    Have a bath/wash hair
94.    Plug in toothbrush
95.    Do facial masque
96.    Soak & scrub feet
97.    Manicure/pedicure
98.    Track food/exercise
99.    Track weight/body measurements
100.   Get/give massage
101.   Go to bed early

I'll keep you updated with my progress!

And What Have You Done?

I started out this year full of fire and fierce hopes, but like all years it's been a mixed bag.

Today, the novel stands at 51,867 words. That's not bad. It's more than double my previous total words written on a project. It's not finished, but it's more than half finished, so I think I'm content with my efforts given how difficult some parts of this year have been.

I've been on a mild SSRI anti-anxiety medication since shortly after my last post, and it has helped immensely with the panic and fight-or-flight responses I was having to my workload. I'm still not sure whether the not coping was due to a chemical imbalance, or whether the chemical imbalance was caused by the workload being absurd, but either way I'm coping a bit better.

The high points of this year included my brother-in-law's lovely wedding, seeing the house where my mother grew up in Nottingham, travelling around the UK a bit, celebrating our first wedding anniversary (I did a video but it's too long to post here, and I don't suppose you lot want to sit for 14 minutes looking at wedding and honeymoon pictures really!), Munchkin starting Year 1, finding the heritage-listed gravestones of my ancestors, spending an enchanted week with the SCA at Raglan Castle in Wales, and losing around a stone through Weight Watchers. 

Aha! Oho!

Australia Day is not quite the same in England.

Making friends at his uncle's wedding.

7 Magdala Road, Nottingham: my mother's childhood home.

Surprise awesome park stop in Yorkshire.

 

Robin Hood's Bay.

Bridge Farm in Almeley, Herefordshire. My great-great-grandfather, Arthur William Dew, was living here in 1871 aged 2.

In the ongoing storage fight in Munchkin's tiny bedroom, I sewed a bookshelf.

Theme park day.

Raglan Castle, Wales

Caution: Archery

Sightseeing in Chichester.

Boarding the plane in Dubai en route to Perth.

A park in Glen Forrest, Perth. My father and I sat on the play equipment, drank coffee and talked.

The graves of my direct ancestors and their relatives, Ashurst, Kent.

Apropos.

6:15am, 25/12/2013

It's been mild so far, but the frost will come.

The low point of the year was, of course, losing my grandmother Jean. Here's some photos of her, just because.

Aged 4, growing up in Liverpool.

Aged 19.

With my grandfather Paul, and their children: (back) Mark, Penny, Nicola; (front) Jonquil, David, Erica, Leonora.

Mum, me, Jean, about 2001.

My first university graduation, 2003.

Family Gathering in 2009.

 It's been a year of big events, lots of weddings and lots of driving - from Newcastle-upon-Tyne in the north east to Southampton on the south coast, west to Shropshire and Herefordshire and out to Raglan, and down in the south east to Kent... I've covered a lot of ground this year, and enjoyed it. There's been new babies (though alas still not one of my own yet) and a few people have left us. Certainly a memorable year.

I haven't got a lot of big goals for 2014. Keep writing the book until it is done, then edit it and start on something new. Keep losing weight, until I hit my goal. Try to get a masters application accepted and funded to start next October, on a Heritage theme. Cope at school. Write another Christmas play. Take more photographs. Go for more walks. See more of this amazing country. Make more garb. Sleep properly. Wear interesting clothes. Have some fun. Blog regularly?

Happy new year, everyone!

Rock and a Hard Place

As you're probably aware, teaching in the UK is getting worse and worse. Shifting goalposts, enormous workloads, constant negative feedback, absurd performance pay, and so on. I'm going crazy with stress and can't keep up with everything I'm supposed to be doing unless I have absolutely no life. I could work 12 hour days 7 days a week and still never get on top of it all.

I keep reaching breaking point, then finding I can go that little bit further, then reaching breaking point again. I almost resigned for Christmas, but I was too scared of the money issues. Now I'm invested in these kids and want to see out the year, but the fight-or-flight response is on constantly and I'm living through a rollercoaster of adrenaline. This has to be my last year of this. Come summer, I am done with classroom teaching.

I'm going to try to get a job back in the heritage sector, with supply teaching as my stopgap until something in that field comes through.

But this comes with a price. I was hoping to have a baby in the next year or so, but we can't really afford one if I'm not in a full-time, decently-paid job in which I am entitled to paid maternity leave. Statutory maternity pay isn't really enough for very long, and I'd be wary of not having a job to go back to anyway. So if I take the plunge, and get out of teaching and into something else, I have to put off having a baby until I'm in whatever that something else turns out to be. At nearly 33, that's not a decision to be taken lightly.

And yet, it's simply not safe, mental health wise, for me to suck it up long enough to have the baby.

I can't balance it, and I don't know what to do.