Cheap Therapy...

Do you have ANY idea what it feels like to finally be able to think?

I mean, I've always been able to 'think' ~  but I've never been able to hold on to one of those thoughts for more than a fleeting second without an all-out game of mental tug-o'-war. Which, by the way, leaves me very tired and cranky by the end of a long day of doing that.

Welcome to the world of undiagnosed Adult ADHD. It's like someone is changing the radio station that broadcasts your thoughts every...oh, about every 5 seconds (if that long). It's looking around you and seeing what needs to be done, but being so overwhelmed by it that you shut down and stare at the walls instead of tackling it. It's going to the grocery store and leaving there, two hours later, in tears because there are so many people, so many lights and noises, and so many choices that you are frustrated and exhausted beyond belief. It's seeing disappointment on your family's faces because you didn't turn out to be the rocket scientist they thought you had the potential to be. It's getting in trouble for being late to work all the time...not because you were lolligagging in bed, but because you tried to do just one more thing before you left the house. It's your husband telling you for thirteen long years how lazy you are. It's your husband finally walking out the door.

I used to talk to my girlfriends who are also mothers and wives, some of whom even manage to work outside the home, and wonder how on earth they did everything. Because no matter how hard I tried, how much sleep I gave up, how many meals I skipped, I never, ever got enough done. I never got anything finished! And I hated the evenings. Cooking supper, cleaning up the kitchen, bathing babies, and supervising homework were the bane of my existance. I would literally have to force myself through these daily tortures, all the while wondering how my friends did it and why on earth I was so lazy that I couldn't do it. It never crossed my mind that it wasn't my fault, that no matter how hard I tried, it was pretty much impossible for me to do those things without help.

My neighbor had been telling me for a couple of years that she thought I was ADD. Who else, she asked, can nurse an infant, talk on the telephone, unload groceries from the car, fix lunch and feed it to a pair of toddlers, put the groceries away AND start supper, all at the same time? I scoffed: if I was so ADD, why did I do well in high school? She argued that I didn't do so well in college though, did I? Still, I blew her off. I'm an adult, that's a kid's disorder. I'm a girl, that's a boy thing. I'm not hyper, I'm lazy.

WRONG. On all counts.

1.  ADD does affect adults, estimated to be around 8 million. How many, like me, are running around undiagnosed thinking that they are just weak-minded, stupid, lazy, failures?

2.  ADD does affect girls. The symptoms just tend to express themselves differently than they do in boys. It is true that in childhood it affects more boys than girls, but it has been discovered that Adult ADHD occurs equally among the sexes.

3.  I'm not lazy. I am, in fact, hyper. The fact that I rarely sit down to eat, can't sit without jiggling my foot or bouncing my leg, can't sit through a movie (even one I'm enjoying), pace while I'm talking on the telephone, stand up to put on my make-up or type on the computer, all of these things are expressions of hyper-activity. The feeling of being lazy comes from the 'shutting down' that happens when ADHD people get overwhelmed (oh, and being told repeatedly by the people who are supposed to love you that you are lazy).

There are few things more frustrating than not being able to finish anything you start, unless it's not being able to start because you have no idea how. Especially when you know, logically, that you're not a stupid person. There is nothing more heartbreaking than finally arriving at your destination, only to be made fun of for being late. Again. There is nothing worse than feeling like a disappointment to the people you love...except maybe when they quit loving you because they just can't take it any more.

I finally listened to my neighbor and went to the doctor. The doctor came in with a screening questionnaire...she asked me the first question and by the time I had finished answering that one, I had inadvertently answered ALL the questions on the questionnaire. She started me out on a low-ish dose, I may have to go up but only time will tell.

I still jiggle my foot when I sit. I still easily think about 4 or 5 things at once. I still pace when I talk on the phone. But for the first time in my life, what's racing through my head isn't all-consuming. I can actually formulate a plan and carry it out. I can go into the grocery store, pick up a few things, and get out. Without crying, no less. I haven't been late to work since I started taking the medicine. I'm not exhausted by 3 o'clock every day.  

Do you think my husband will feel bad when he figures out that he left me because I had an un-diagnosed, un-treated neuropsychiatric condition? One that is a result not of laziness, lack of willpower, or stupidity, but of genetics and biology? That I couldn't help the way I was any more than I could if I had diabetes or hypertension?

Do you think my family and friends will quit poking fun at me for always running late and having a messy house?

Do you think my boss will write my past tardiness off as 'excused' when he finds out that I really couldn't help it?

Do you think I can go back to college, and actually enjoy it and be successful?

Oh, what I would give to have all the wasted years back...

Well, working as a waitress, you overhear a lot of conversations. Some are about work, some are about who did what to whom, some are about spouses, some are about golf. Some really make your eyes fly open wide, because you never dreamed that you would hear anyone utter out loud the words you just overheard. Some just bear repeating, and I have permission from the teller of this story to reproduce it in print:

A couple took their small child to the zoo, I'm not sure which zoo or exactly how old the child was but he seemed to be around the 5-6 yr age range. At some point during their visit, the child got separated from his parents. After frantically searching, the relieved parents found their child, soaking wet, in the gift shop. They gathered him up and took him home, and as they were getting his bath ready he said, "Daddy, I took something from the zoo."

"Son, what did you take from the zoo?"

"A penguin. It's in my backpack."

Remembering that they found him in the gift shop, the dad sternly said, "Son, it's not right to take things that aren't yours. You're going to have to return the penguin from the zoo and apologize for taking it. Now, go get the penguin out of your backpack."

And he did.

You can imagine his dad's face when he saw the penguin.

It was alive.

For Spring Break, the kids and I drove out to Clarksville, Tennessee to stay with Carrie, Bennett, and the boys. I had just crossed the Tennessee line at about, oh - say 10 o'clock at night, when I saw the flashing blue and red lights in the rearview mirror. After spending the last nine hours listening to the hundred or so episodes of Scooby-Doo that the kids had been watching, they had just fallen asleep. And now, I was getting pulled over. Which would wake them up. I was not a happy mommy.

While I waited for the Tennessee State Trooper to approach my car window, I rooted around in my purse for my driver's license and proof of insurance while frantically checking the rearview mirror every two seconds to see if any little heads had popped up yet. I finally saw the officer walking towards me, so I rolled down the window. What transpired went as follows:

Officer: "Good evening, Ma'am. Do you know why I pulled you over?"

Me, whispering: "Shh-ssssshhhhhh! I have been in this car for over nine hours with three kids, listening to endless episodes of Scooby-Doo, and they just. fell. asleep."

Officer, looking sheepish and lowering his voice: "Oh. Sorry. I think one is awake, I saw one shifting around when I walked up."

Officer, mentally shaking his head and putting on his professional face, though still speaking very softly: "Ma'am, I pulled you over because I clocked you running 78 in a 70 m.p.h. zone."

Me, scowling at Officer.

Officer, looking sheepish again: "Actually, that gives us an excuse to pull you over so we can check for our real purpose, which is stopping drug trafficking."

Me, with a three foot long stuffed tiger in the front seat and scattered Scooby-Doo DVD boxes everywhere, flaying Officer's skin off his face with my white-hot, super-angry Mommy Stare.

Officer, stammering slightly: "They've started using women in mini-vans to transport drugs because they think we won't bother to pull them over."

Me, altering the white-hot, super-angry Mommy Stare to add Knitted Brows and Are-you-serious? tilt of the head upon hearing, "Mama? Are you going to jail?" in a very small voice from the back seat.

Officer: "Ma'am?Doyouhaveanyillegalsubstancesinyourpossession?"

Me, coolly: "Do you count half a bag of stale Chex Mix as an illegal substance?"

Officer: "No, ma'am."

Me: "Then the answer is no."

From the back seat: "Are we to Aunt Cree's yet?"

Officer, blanching slightly: "Um. Ok. Have a safe trip, ma'am."

Officer, as an afterthought: "Oh. And, ma'am? Please try to observe the posted speed limits?"

From the back seat: "Yeah, are we there yet?"

Me, emitting powerful laser beams from my eyes: "Thank you, Officer."

Officer, scurrying toward cruiser: "You're welcome, ma'am. Have a good night."

Frankenputer is home!

Put down your pitchforks and boiling pitch, that's not a bad thing. Frankenputer is the laptop that Bennett built me in Iraq, we call it that because it's basically a collection of Dell parts that he had laying around (why he had computer parts...enough to build a whole computer...just laying around I can't answer). Anyway, provided my motherboard holds out this time, I'm once again linked to the rest of the world. Go, me! Or rather, Go, Frankenputer!

Happy 4th of July everyone. I took the kids to Addison's KaboomTown last nite to watch one of the best fireworks displays in the nation. It was trully awesome. I wish I had pictures to post - some of the fireworks I have never seen before and I'm something of an afficianado, growing up with a pyrotechnician for a dad and all. But even if I had a camara I'm sure I'm not a good enough photographer to capture the spectacular display that we were treated to last night.

Wonder if Bennett has any camara parts laying around?

Well, since my blogs have mostly been depressing and whiny lately, I thought I'd post a couple of funnies. With kids, dogs, cats, and birds all living with me in relative harmony, strange things happen at my house all the time. I've really gotten used to it. But every once in a while, something comes up that surprises even me.

Random acts of kitten....

Around the first part of December, I sat down on the edge of the bed around eleven o'clock one night to call Cree and Bennett and tell them goodnight. My bed meowed at me. Rooting around in the rumpled up covers, I found a brand new little grey tabby cat, apparently a gift from my Siamese (who is supposed to be fixed, by the way). That is not what surprised me, because I've found newborn kittens in strange places in my house before.

Fast forward four months, and imagine my surprise when I opened a drawer in my kitchen to get a dish towel and found instead a furry butt. I screamed like a little girl and slammed the drawer shut. A second later, I realized what I had seen was not a rodent, but my four month old kitten, Tilly - napping in my dish towel drawer. Apparently, she opens the cabinet underneath the drawer and uses the recessed shelf inside as a step, enabling her to climb into the drawer while leaving it shut. Bennett and Cree are in town, so I have yet to live down the whole 'screaming like a little girl' thing. But I was just not expecting a furry form in my kitchen drawer...and yes, all the dishtowels have been re-washed and relocated. I have surrendered the drawer to the cat.

Surprise!

Tilly, disturbed...

The things kids do to entertain themselves....

Yesterday, when the kids and I got home from school, Cree's kids were out in the front yard playing with giant bubble wands. I told my kids they could stay outside and play. I looked out the window to check on them and saw Cooper (7) and Jared (4) blowing giants bubbles, and KC (9) shooting and popping the bubbles with the Nerf gun. I was pretty impressed with his aim. Pa Pie will be proud.

Rock stars in the making...

KC - Guitar Hero?

Drummer Boy

You know, when you get married you take a week or more off for a honeymoon. When you have a baby or adopt one, typical maternity leave is six weeks. When a loved one dies, you usually take a day or two off...sometimes more if you have to clean out the house or make arrangements. Major, life-changing events require time to adjust to your new circumstances.

But I got divorced and planned to return to work the next day.

And I did.

However, I'd been there for less than an hour when they sent me home. I was having trouble focusing. I was distracted. I wanted to cry. I didn't have any patience. I wanted to be at home, in my pajamas, in my bed. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to throw up. I did NOT want to serve food, smile, be hospitable, or be cheerful.

Hm, doesn't that sound a lot like grief? And, as dumb as this may seem, it never crossed my mind that I needed to take a few days off after I went to court to finalize my divorce to grieve. I have since come to the realization, though, that I did. And still do.

I have good days. Today was a good day. I laughed at work, joked with my guests, teased my co-workers, played with my kids. Yesterday, though, not so much. I had a moment, standing at the foot of the bed, while I was getting dressed for work. A moment when I realized that my spouse was gone and I was alone. Even though I shook off the moment, the feeling stayed with me all day. I went to work and did my job, but I wasn't my usual sunny self.

We'll have to wait and see how tomorrow goes. But, if any of you reading this are in the midst of a divorce, don't plan on working the day after you go to court to get it finalized. You need to give yourself the time and space to grieve the dream that you have lost.

Trust me. 

Well, my divorce was finalized on Wednesday, March 25, 2009. Eleven years and four days after I became a wife, I was stripped of the title. Walker's been gone for a little over nine months now, and the kids and I have been doing fine. We have our own little routines, our own silly new habits, our own peace with the situation. I did not anticipate the finalization being hard on me.

But, oh, my God.

It was awful. I mean, just terrible. I stood in that courtroom, looking around, and thinking, "Eleven years ago today, I was on my honeymoon." I didn't cry until the judge announced that the court accepted our petition for divorce and declared our marriage dead. Tears started rolling down my face, and I must have looked really pitiful because the court reporter got up and gave me a hug.

Thank God Cree, Kimberly, and my friend The Great Camel were there. They steered me out of the courtroom and into the car, then took me out for lunch and a margarita. I think I was pretty much putty in their hands, my brain was not functioning.

Two days later, my brain is still not functioning. My stomach is sick, I haven't kept much down for a couple of days. My head hurts, probably from crying. All I want to do is sleep, and my cheeks flat-out refuse to turn up into a smile. I just did not anticipate the sheer suckiness of having it publicly acknowledged that your marriage failed and is over.

Done. Kaput. Non-existant. Revoked.

I've been a wife my entire adult life, and I'm just...not one...anymore. The dream I've held in my head for over a decade of us sitting on a front porch, matching rocking chairs, watching the grandkids play in the front yard with the dogs is dead. My marriage is dead. Someone asked me why I was having a tough time with it, since he's been gone for over nine months - it's not like this is new or surprising. The only thing I can compare it to is a funeral. By the time the funeral rolls around, the person you love has already been dead and gone for a couple of days. Yet, you can't help but get hit with a fresh wave of grief when you see that coffin get lowered into the ground because then, it's real. It's final.

It's not like I really have time to wallow in my grief and self-pity: I still have three little kids to take care of. I'm sure that in a couple of days, I'll get my feet back under me and find my smile.

But this seriously sucks. 

Strange Storm

Stormy Sky

 And, apparently, the cosmos agreed with me. I've never seen a sky like this except in the original Ghostbusters movie. I thought it was kind of appropriate for the day. 

You know, I was looking through the few photos I have on here and I saw that cute one of Pedro when he was a puppy. And the one I just love of six muddy little legs in the shower.

And I thought to myself....I got the best of this deal:

I got the most precious kids.

I got the dog.

I definately got the better end of this stick.

I hurt so badly right now that I can't even cry, that simply crying is just. not. enough. I feel like I need to retch the pain up and out of me in a putrid torrent of hurt, disappointment, anger, disbelief, frustration, indignation, betrayal and...sadness. I'm keeping my composure though, I'm smiling on the outside, because my children are home with me and I'm afraid that if I let even a trickle of the pain I'm feeling out, my heart will burst like the proverbial dam and I won't be able to control the damage.

Up to this point, I have refrained from putting the details of the State of the Dissolving Union on my blog because then it becomes public domain, forever archived in cyberspace for the world to access on a whim. Basically, (cue COPS theme music) anything I say here can and may be used against me in a court of law. But this is my outlet, my vent, and I'm afraid I'm on the verge of blowing like Vesuvius.

My husband left me, you all know that. He told me he didn't love me anymore and he got himself a girlfriend. Or, maybe he got the girlfriend then decided he didn't love me...I don't know and I really don't care.  That was hard, that hurt. It was really awful when his girlfriend decided to assauge her guilt by trying to convince me (and, herself) that she wasn't a homewrecker, that her sleeping with a married man was excused by the fact that he and I had problems. I suppose that she didn't want to feel like she was responsible for breaking up a marriage so she called me, she texted me, she came for lunch to the restaurant where I work, knowing full well that I would be there. Of course I can't speak to her motives with any certainty, but I sincerely hope that's why she was doing all of those things because I can't think of any other plausible explanation for harrassing your boyfriend's wife.  I stomached her offers to babysit, to speak to Walker on my behalf, to help me get a job with her company.  I refused to be baited when she suggested a self-help book she thought I needed or told me I was (and I quote) "a pathetic piece of shit" and "a lazy pig".  I managed not to laugh in their faces when they insisted that I needed to respect her. I didn't throw a fit when she sent me an itemized list of all the fun she had with my kids on Christmas Day. I think she finally decided I was serious when I told her for the hundredth time that I was glad that she and the kids got along so well but that I have no interest in being her friend, and that if she didn't stop contacting me I was going to get a restraining order, because she hasn't bothered me in about two weeks. Here's hoping the cease fire lasts.

But even if it doesn't, I now know that I can handle being stalked by my husband's girlfriend with the same grace that I handled being told that my husband, after 12 years and three children, didn't love me or want me anymore. What I am having difficulty wrapping my brain around and handling with any amount of grace, is the way he's treating our children.

Oh, don't get me wrong, he's not being mean to them. They come home after every other weekend telling me how much fun they had with Daddy, how he played Rock Band with them on the Wii, took them horseback riding, or let them help him cook supper. They're equally glad to see him when he picks them up on his Fridays as they are to see me when he drops them off the following Sunday. What he's doing is a lot more subtle. 

He's five weeks behind on his spousal support. He's a week behind on his child support. He tells me that it's because he hasn't been working enough hours, but when I ask why he's not spending his extra free-time with his kids, he doesn't have an answer. He hasn't even talked to them on the telephone in a week, and when I pointed this out to him his answer was, "Well, the kids haven't called me." I couldn't believe I had to try to explain to him that it's his responsibility to maintain a relationship with his children, not the other way around. Then he tried to say that the reason they don't want to call him is because I've been telling them ugly things about him. I would think that after knowing me for a dozen years plus tax, he would know that I'm a better mother than that. I may not be a better person than that, because believe me, when our kids aren't around I call him every name in the book. But I am a better mother than to subject the children to the stress of feeling like the rope in an adult game of Tug O' War.  

When I told him that by not giving me the money that the courts ordered him to pay he's depriving the kids of the things they need, he told me that it wasn't his responsibility to support the kids and that I should be able to support them without counting on him. I guess he conveniently forgot that WE decided that I would drop out of college to get married and have these kids, these beautiful, intellegent, healthy, good-natured children who I did not conceive by myself. I may not have conceived them by myself, but I seem to be raising them by myself. How, exactly, does that work, Walker? His answer: "If you can't support them on the $2.13 you make an hour as a waitress, you need to find a better job and quit being lazy and depending on me."

Lazy? LAZY?! The man who walked out on his wife, his children, his home, his pets, his job - all of it - has the audacity to call me lazy? ME?! The one who works every minute the children are in school? The one who washes the laundry that they bring home dirty from their weekends with their dad? The one who gets up with them in the middle of the night? The one who rolls change, then goes to the store to buy the peanut butter for them to pack in their lunches? The one who reads to them before bed through eyes she can barely hold open?

I'm not looking for a pat on the back here, I'm not doing anything extraordinary. Thousands upon thousands of women (and men, for that matter) are doing the same things that I am. We don't have a choice, we have children; we refuse to run away from the responsibilities that come with the gift of a child. I don't want comments telling me how brave or strong I am, because I'm not brave (I'm scared to death) OR strong (every time I turn around, someone is having to help me out). All I want from this post is to get the poison out of my system so it doesn't eat me alive from the inside.

And I think it's already working.