My fiancé Preppy will tell you it’s no cakewalk trying to live with a writer. Every moment of our shared life holds the threat of becoming art. Preppy has endured the surreal experience of watching actors reenact our arguments for paying audiences. He has discovered his supervisors at work read about his sex life in a weekly magazine. He has sat smiling at book signings as I demonstrate what his snoring sounds like.Dating a writer ain’t for sissies.
In my defense, he was warned. Early in our relationship, I gave him a binder containing all of my columns, with the explicit understanding that he’d be signing up for a life of full disclosure, told from the perspective of a crazy person who would always cast himself in the role of the hero. That’s an important element to consider: You’re always getting my side of the story, where every action is, if not defensible, at least explicable. I don’t pretend I’m faultless, but I suppose I’ve reached a point where I accept there are things about me that aren’t likely to change. I am well-intentioned, yet hopelessly scatterbrained. I’m devoted, but unreliable. Caring, but self-centered. My mind works funny, but the positive spin is that it helps me see the world in an interesting way.
And isn’t that worth the hassle?
It was a Friday night, and both of us were on the sofa with laptops in front of us, working. I’d disabled the wireless internet on my Dell so I couldn’t fall in a Facebook or YouTube K-hole and inexplicably lose six hours of my life. Supernanny was on. I love that show. A solidly-built British nanny named Jo is calls upon American households, where she observes for a few days and then explains in a stern but loving voice why the parents are unfit to raise children. It’s delightful.
In this episode, the parents had the most severely ADD child ever to walk the planet. They’d chosen not to medicate him, which is fine, but they also had made no provisions whatsoever to deal with raising a hummingbird on crack. Nanny Jo found this “totally unacceptable” and commenced working her stern but loving magic.
“You know, I was diagnosed ADHD when I was in my teens,” I said.
“I do not find that at all surprising,” said Preppy. “Were you on meds?”
“Yeah. Ritalin. High dosage.”
“Again, not surprising. Did it work?”
I thought back for a moment.
“You know what?” I said. “It did. That was the only time in my life I was a good student. I made it through Chemistry and Spanish II in a month of summer school, with A’s. Then I got back to school and by the end of first semester I realized I could sell it and make some decent cash, especially during exams. So I stopped taking it, and then I dropped out…”
This gave me pause.
“Do you think I still have it?”
“Yes,” he said without the slightest hesitation. “You absolutely still have it.”
“Well, even if I do, I’ve found a way to deal with it.”
“I guess so,” he sighed. “God knows I’ve had to.”
It’s been thirteen years since I sat in a psychiatrist’s office, sobbing in confusion and frustration over my impatience, procrastination, and insecurities. I remember the overwhelming sense of relief my parents and I felt when the evaluation gave it a name, something we could examine and attack. I still had that assessment in a box of old paperwork from the 90s. I found it, and re-read it.
Every word of it was still true.
I went online and started reading about Adult ADD, how it can impact everything from communication in your marriage to car maintenance. I felt violated reading the personal accounts- every one of them seemed lifted from my own life. I considered my last desk job, where I would sit in my office paralyzed by inaction and never able to understand why. My boss and I would fight constantly. He saw me as unconcerned. I knew how hard I was trying, yet had little evidence to show for it. I’d have the same conversations at home, when it took me nine hours to clean the kitchen. I cannot count the number of times people have come to me bewildered, wondering why a seemingly capable man could not accomplish the most basic tasks. I’ve been accused of not caring, of being lazy, of being unreliable. Deep down, I feared it was true, despite my intentions.
And all this time, I had an answer. I’ve had an answer for thirteen goddamn years, and I’ve done nothing about it. I was too ADD to deal with my ADD.
Three days later, I took care of two long-overdue tasks: I wrote a letter of apology to my former boss. I didn’t go into an explanation of my psyche. I just told him I was sorry, and that for the first time, I could see his side. And then I made a visit to my doctor.
There’s a lot of things I’ve asked Preppy to accept in our life together, and he has done so with grace and aplomb. Living with a man who has given up on improving himself shouldn’t be one of those requests. The little orange pill is just a tool- the work falls in my hands, and I intend to try. I believe Supernanny would be very proud.
It was a Friday night, and both of us were on the sofa with laptops in front of us, working. I’d disabled the wireless internet on my Dell so I couldn’t fall in a Facebook or YouTube K-hole and inexplicably lose six hours of my life. Supernanny was on. I love that show. A solidly-built British nanny named Jo is calls upon American households, where she observes for a few days and then explains in a stern but loving voice why the parents are unfit to raise children. It’s delightful.
In this episode, the parents had the most severely ADD child ever to walk the planet. They’d chosen not to medicate him, which is fine, but they also had made no provisions whatsoever to deal with raising a hummingbird on crack. Nanny Jo found this “totally unacceptable” and commenced working her stern but loving magic.
“You know, I was diagnosed ADHD when I was in my teens,” I said.
“I do not find that at all surprising,” said Preppy. “Were you on meds?”
“Yeah. Ritalin. High dosage.”
“Again, not surprising. Did it work?”
I thought back for a moment.
“You know what?” I said. “It did. That was the only time in my life I was a good student. I made it through Chemistry and Spanish II in a month of summer school, with A’s. Then I got back to school and by the end of first semester I realized I could sell it and make some decent cash, especially during exams. So I stopped taking it, and then I dropped out…”
This gave me pause.
“Do you think I still have it?”
“Yes,” he said without the slightest hesitation. “You absolutely still have it.”
“Well, even if I do, I’ve found a way to deal with it.”
“I guess so,” he sighed. “God knows I’ve had to.”
It’s been thirteen years since I sat in a psychiatrist’s office, sobbing in confusion and frustration over my impatience, procrastination, and insecurities. I remember the overwhelming sense of relief my parents and I felt when the evaluation gave it a name, something we could examine and attack. I still had that assessment in a box of old paperwork from the 90s. I found it, and re-read it.
Every word of it was still true.
I went online and started reading about Adult ADD, how it can impact everything from communication in your marriage to car maintenance. I felt violated reading the personal accounts- every one of them seemed lifted from my own life. I considered my last desk job, where I would sit in my office paralyzed by inaction and never able to understand why. My boss and I would fight constantly. He saw me as unconcerned. I knew how hard I was trying, yet had little evidence to show for it. I’d have the same conversations at home, when it took me nine hours to clean the kitchen. I cannot count the number of times people have come to me bewildered, wondering why a seemingly capable man could not accomplish the most basic tasks. I’ve been accused of not caring, of being lazy, of being unreliable. Deep down, I feared it was true, despite my intentions.
And all this time, I had an answer. I’ve had an answer for thirteen goddamn years, and I’ve done nothing about it. I was too ADD to deal with my ADD.
Three days later, I took care of two long-overdue tasks: I wrote a letter of apology to my former boss. I didn’t go into an explanation of my psyche. I just told him I was sorry, and that for the first time, I could see his side. And then I made a visit to my doctor.
There’s a lot of things I’ve asked Preppy to accept in our life together, and he has done so with grace and aplomb. Living with a man who has given up on improving himself shouldn’t be one of those requests. The little orange pill is just a tool- the work falls in my hands, and I intend to try. I believe Supernanny would be very proud.
