The Thinker

The inner working of an old clock, with wheels and cogs, is satisfying to watch. The way each different piece somehow relies on the last and yet still fit together in a way that they can accomplish a specific task is mesmerizing.

As a teacher, picturing the way you think is a very helpful way to get students to complete meta-cognitive tasks (help them become aware that they can think about thinking), but in life, it is essential for me to function as a mentally healthy person.

I see wheels. Everywhere. Each separate synapse connection in my brain has it's own personal wheel, which inexplicably is attached to thousands of other wheels like some endless clockwork labyrinth. When I am focused, I am the conductor. I can choose which wheel to run at full speed, what accompanying wheels I need, and still sing a song and have conversations on the side.

When I am not focused... The wheels take over; some spinning wildly out of control and crashing into other wheels I need to process basic information, some grinding to halts when I need to them to turn, others spinning backwards. By the time I realize the wheels are whipping around, my body has been paralyzed, and just like the scene when Gene Wilder scares the sh- out of an entire boat of people on his chocolate river (Charlie and the Chocolate Factory 1971), everything comes to a screeching halt and the entire system does an overhaul shutdown. On the outside, when this is happening, you might catch me talking in short nonsensical fragments to myself, spinning or walking in circles, or smiling as I slowly grow into a panic.

With ADD, my brain naturally functions in this way. At times, when I am feeling inspired and creative, (or need to respond to a class of thirty 13 year olds all at once) it is an asset. Other times... it is not. I had to write this story at least four times because I accidentally deleted it twice and then it was garbage at least two more times because I kept losing track of what I was thinking about.

Until I was a mom, I never found the need or reason to get a hold of my neurological disorder. I ran around a complete mess, overbooking myself constantly, always saying yes to everyone (because I feel like superwoman in the moment) but avoiding any real relationships (because by the time I get home each day I have the overhaul shutdown feeling), and blindly letting myself be the kind of off, but really loving person/teacher/coach that was fun to talk to. It was a very torturous way to live but I avoided confronting it thinking I was avoiding anxiety.

Children do not allow you to avoid your neurological disorders. In reality, they make them bloom. This is especially true with multiple children because the chances that one of them has the same process of thinking as you increases. Watching a mini-you go through an anxiety attack but have zero handle on it will shove your face against the mirror so hard it will crack the glass and self reflection becomes an "every second of your life" kinda thing.

"Hang on buddy. Mommy just needs to pay one bill and then I'll get off the computer". I've made it to the login page for the electric bill without any little hands slapping the screen shut or smearing the keys with stickiness. Baby Beast is ripping at my shirt and trying to eat through my shirt. " I know you're hungry buddy, two minutes please..."

But really now I'm thinking about the baby and having trouble finding the stupid button for member login. Out of my peripherals I see my son standing on the back of the couch pulling the cover to the thermostat on and off as he stares at me with a playful smile. Damn.

I get up to get him and he dives off the back of the couch onto the giant pillows. The cover to the thermostat goes flying across the living room and little giggles escape from the couch.

What was I doing? Back to login. What the hell is my username and password?

I try the first few usernames and passwords I can think of, but then the warning that I am getting locked out of my account pops up. Damn again.

Reluctantly I start the Forgot My Password process. Enter email. Wrong email. Enter other email. Log in to email to click link. Send security code to phone. Where the hell is the phone?

As I rummage through couch cushions and half folded laundry to find the ever-elusive phone, the two year old tries to climb on my back squealing laughing. Baby Beastie is crying harder now so I stop looking for the phone, close the laptop and put it at a safe height on top of the fridge.

With the technology safe, I can sit down to feed the baby. Before he finishes eating, I have created a list of groceries we need. As soon as baby is fed, I sneak out for a little alone time at the grocery store. (A lot of heavy sarcasm and cheesy old lady stuff went on when I said that out loud).

The idea of shopping gives me anxiety alone but at least wearing a mask hides half my face; with may hair down and a hat on I can pretty much feel like I've disappeared into a walking set of eyes. I speak loudly for myself when I say no one dealing with a neurological disorder is comfortable in public because judgement seems to lie everywhere and we are already hyper self conscious of "how we can be".

By the time I've jogged through the store and am piling groceries on the belt, I start noticing the items on the list I forgot and will have to get tomorrow. I try to judge whether or not I should be nice or stoic to the cashier, get it wrong, then tell them I appreciate them working in such difficult conditions and rush out the door. Always happy to escape but then rushing back to the mayhem, more worried about the Beasties than when I left.

It's not til later that day, hours and hours after my bill pay attempt that I start to beat myself up for all the partially started, half thought out tasks I didn't finish. Still phone-less and unable to login after a rushed unimpressive dinner, I open the door and let the Beasties run out to play barefoot in the grassy yard. I follow them slowly wishing I could handle such mundane tasks more easily.

Sitting in the grass with the baby, the three year old runs up to me and sits down smiling and hugs me. I hug him but then wonder... Ugh. Of course. That means he pooped. Ready to give up from mental exhaustion, I do a quick butt check.

For once, no poop.

Then it hits me that he really just wanted to give me a hug and my heart melts to mush. He lays back on the grass and looks happy so I copy him.

My head hit the ground, I felt the solidness of the dirt and the softness of the grass. It was like the toxic thoughts I poured into myself all day were sucked down out of me. My eyes opened to the cloudy overcast sky and my brain went completely quiet.

How long had it been since I had laid flat on the earth and admired the sky? How long had it been since I laid in this position and tried to peer off as far into the clouds as I could and forget gravity was holding me down?

We laid there giggling for ten, maybe thirty minutes, and then my angel giant nonverbal toddler Beastie looked into my eyes with such clarity and touched the tip of my nose with his finger, "Wuv you Mummy".

"So sweet," I underplayed my reaction, kissed his forehead, and then held back the massive welling of tears and love for that little sucker. Having accomplished nothing that day and feeling like absolute garbage, he had somehow centered me in a single moment.

So, for now, here is to getting better. To being honest with ourselves so we can be truthful to our children. To loving each other despite our mental (physical/ sexual/ economical/ emotional) barriers. To being better Moms and Dads together and creating a little less poop in the world.

If you think you suffer from a neurological disorder and do not have a diagnosis, have an honest conversation with your doctor so they can recommend a specialist. Still in the beginning stages of acceptance? Use Google to find support groups for your disorder. We are stronger together and you are not alone.