Dear ADHD (Letter #1)

A letter to my constant companion

[Because I’ve had a slew of viral Tweets about ADHD lately, I’ve realized that I want to make room in this Substack for posts about the subject. The plan is to post a letter to ADHD about once a week (feel free to skip, obviously, if you’ve signed up for this Substack for other content).

Today’s letter—which is the first—comes on the heels of joining a new orchestra last week (the Tacoma Community Orchestra) which reminded me of this story, which ends up being the perfect example of how ADHD can adversely affect a little person, and the perfect content for this new series.]

Dear ADHD,

Do you remember the time I started a blog in 2010 about you, and then that blog ended up going viral for other reasons and becoming about my process of fully coming out as a gay man in front of millions of people?

Turns out, I still have a lot to process about you, and perhaps even more trauma in my life due to you than all of that other stuff, if you can believe it!

I imagine I will have a lot to say to you as I continue to process the trauma I have felt because of you over the course of my life. But, as with all things ADHD, this moment is slapdash and urgent, because the numbers on a current Tweet I posted about you are mounting and I need to get this letter up so I can let people know that this new series of letters I’m writing about you exists.

My letters about you will talk about my journey of trauma, recovery, healing, and all sorts of things. They will also contain tips based on my work with clients that could serve to help others (though naturally this won’t be considered therapy, and individualized help should come from a hired professional).

Anyway, today, I’m posting one of the stories I wrote back then because it still breaks my heart. You have broken my heart a lot, ADHD.

Here’s the story:

I want to point out that part of what makes these stories so traumatic for someone with ADHD is the frequency with which they occur. I’m really hoping that over time, the cumulative effect of these anecdotes will help to demonstrate why this whole thing sucks so much–but just as with any disorder, most people will get a sense of “I’ve been there before” because they have experienced similar situations (just like, even though you probably don’t have clinical depression, you’ve most likely felt depressed, and even though you probably don’t have Generalized Anxiety Disorder, you’ve probably had a nail-biting, stomach-churning, anxiety-ridden day or two in your life, and even though you don’t have Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder (qualitatively different than OCD btw), you’ve most likely caught yourself counting sidewalk cracks or checking “one more time” to see if the car door really locked.)

I look back on my childhood and get the sense that, a lot of the time, I was a space-cadet. This is one example of that.

So, I play the violin. I started at age 10, which is fifth grade. Of course, having my instrument at school when it was time to be taught by the lady that came in to teach us was a ridiculous comedy of errors, but somehow I had it there enough that I was really learning. I couldn’t pay attention enough to read music yet, but I had a good ear and high confidence, so when the teacher gave us a new song, I’d say “can you play it for us once?” and then be able to duplicate it well enough that she never realized I couldn’t read the notes during the two years she taught us.

By sixth grade, I was one of the strongest players. Possibly the strongest player (I can’t remember anymore). This was rewarded by my being invited to play a solo in a concert: it was a one octave D-major scale, but I owned that thing. I was to play my triumphant solo at a concert at another school. Some kind of invitational or something. Not a big deal to anybody but me, I’m sure. But I was excited.

The day of the concert finally came. I felt nervous as I got on the bus, thinking about playing in front of a crowd of non-peers. I always loved bus rides during a school day–watching everything pass in the daylight, wondering what the other kids in my class were having to do while I was away.

When we arrived at our destination, everything was chaotic. The moms that came with us were buzzing around, setting up music stands and the kids were milling around, waiting. My orchestra teacher was very preoccupied setting things up, and I was feeling some sensory over-stimulation, not really understanding the minutiae of what was going on, and not sure what I should do next. Then one of the moms said “all right guys, go ahead and get set up.”

That’s when the panic hit me like punch in the gut. I had forgotten my violin.

Yes, of course this was an orchestra concert, and of course I wanted nothing more than to have my moment in the spotlight. I wanted to feel the pay-off of the practice I had done at home, and I wanted to show off the songs I had learned. But somehow, for reasons I had no way of comprehending, I had forgotten the one thing I needed to remember. The one thing that was so obvious that nobody would even think to remind me of. And there it sat, in my classroom, by my backpack, while I was there at another school.

I couldn’t have felt more stupid. And I had no idea what to do.

I tried talking to my orchestra teacher, but she was no help. She was upset, and deferred me to one of the moms while she figured out how to restructure the program without my little solo. At that point my sole aim was to get a violin. “Is there one here I can play?” I asked.

“I don’t think so,” the mom sweetly said. “I’m so sorry.” I remember being so relieved that she was nice to me.

She invited me to sit with her, and I squirmed in my seat a little as I watched my peers play our concert, wishing I could be playing with them. I don’t remember now if somebody else played my solo, or if it just wasn’t in the program that day. But I didn’t play it. I just had to sit and watch, and then field questions from my peers all about “why didn’t you play with us?” and “you forgot your violin?!” on the bus-ride home. I was humiliated.

I wish I could say that I “learned my lesson” and that after that, I never did anything like it again. But the thing that’s hard to remember about ADHD is that experiences like these aren’t cautionary tales. They aren’t “lessons.” They are symptoms. And just like any other symptom of any other disease or disorder, they will be seen over and over and over again until they are successfully treated, (and even then they’ll still show up sometimes).

My ADHD never was.

I’m learning to forgive you, old friend. I’m learning to see all the value you bring.

But as you can see, with stories like these, it’s hard sometimes.

With growing affection, and some wariness,

Josh