The New Normal

"Freedom without limits is just a word". - Terry Pratchett

That quote takes on a whole new meaning when you find yourself unemployed indefinitely. My husband can do his job from home so he is still working and has a relatively normal routine, apart from the (welcome) loss of a commute. It's hard for us to be too excited only because past experience has taught us jobs you can do from home can be easily be shipped overseas.

As soon as we learned schools would close, one son took the initiative to plan a schedule. Both followed it with minimal encouragement from me. Fortunately they're passionate about learning and desperate for some semblance of normalcy. As much as children rebel against structure, they do want and need it (and what else would they have to rebel against without it?)

Near the end of the first week, we received packets from school. I made some minor tweaks to the schedule. If you're a parent in need of supplemental materials, Scholastic has free daily resources. ABCYa and PBS Kids have educational games and activities. My sons have a membership to an educational roleplaying game, Prodigy, through school. 

Our karate school has been hard at work setting up an online curriculum. 

The Down Dog apps are free in their entirety through May 1st so far (July for teachers and students with .edu accounts) but even the free version is adequate for exercise. I use HIIT for upper body workouts (though it can be used for whole body as well) and Barre for lower body workouts (in my experience, barre classes rival "leg day"), as well as their Yoga app. 

All set, right?

Wrong.

Not a lot of work or play filled the first week as I tried to make sense of our new normal. I somewhat repurposed my Habitica app to create a clear picture of what days would look like instead of everything smooshing together in my brain, leaving me overwhelmed. I hate routine, but I need it. Making plans and sticking to them are my version of self care. I'm like a great white; if I don't keep swimming, I'll drown. 

We're trying to make the best of things, and we know others have it worst. The most important thing is protecting others, including doctors and nurses. I'm disheartened retail and restaurant employees are being mistreated or poorly compensated. Times like this should remind us not to take for granted the services others provide, be they a cashier, cook, doctor, driver, nurse, or server. Even creators of art, literature, music, film, and television whose work is keeping us sane and entertained during these interesting times demonstrate their importance.

I do think it's okay to feel disappointed as long as we don't misplace our frustrations. When I had my cancer scare in February, I mostly thought about everything I'd miss out on. That is why we're doing this, after all. So others don't have to miss out, either. I can fear for the sick, worry for the working, and still have empathy left over for the graduating senior or the birthday child. Compassion is not a nonrenewable resource. 

I feel torn between gratitude for the internet keeping us connected and resentment of our increased reliance on it. Mostly I'm hard at work on personal projects. I have exciting news to share next month, but perhaps not as exciting as originally planned. We shall see.

Tick Tock

Last month ended up being a little more trying than usual. In a lot of ways, I felt like I had my life on track. I was staying on top of things at home better. Being less of a screw up and setting a better example as a parent. Keeping up with German lessons and guitar practice and my new fitness routine. Taking a break from my novel only to work on a collection of short stories I need to complete before May (assuming the cause of the proverbial fire under my bottom doesn't get cancelled). More on that next month.

Everything I'm working for became threatened Mid-February. I'm positive for the BRCA1 genetic mutation, which makes me high risk for breast and ovarian cancer. I've had mammograms since my twenties. I worry every year, but this year felt different. It felt different in the way receiving the results of my genetic testing felt different. For all my freaking out beforehand, I'd never really expected a positive result. That's what the freaking out was for; as long as I set myself up to look like an idiot, I'd be fine. But as soon as I walked into the building, I knew. 

I had a similar sense of 'oh crap' for lack of a better phrase when I went to the radiology clinic this year. I felt a little better after my mammogram. The images didn't appear notably different than last year, but the radiologist saw something she didn't like so back I was sent for an ultrasound. I had a hard time viewing the screen the way the room was set up, but when I glanced back I just saw her measuring cysts. 

No biggie.

What concerned my radiologist turned out to be one of those cysts, but the ultrasound technician caught something else. Now I was being asked if I wanted to schedule a biopsy or stick around and see if they could squeeze me in. I wanted it done sooner rather than later because a delay only meant extending fear over my health and the procedure. Better to get it over with before I had too much time to think about it.

They almost squeezed me in an hour later, but a late arrival showed up for their scheduled biopsy; it wasn't for several more hours that I had a core needle biopsy. It involved giving me a numbing shot, making an incision, and inserting a larger spring loaded needle to remove tissue samples. It was...unpleasant. After the first painful shot all I felt was pressure, but the sound of the spring was awful, like 'tummy stapled after a c-section' awful. 

I wore an ice pack home, and didn't bother with any ibuprofen. I still went to work the next day even though my husband wanted me to stay home to relax (uh). That night I had a panic attack. I felt a little foolish the following day when I received my results. It was benign. 

But I also realized something.

While some family members underwent surgery following their own positive genetic tests, I wanted to hold off until something happened, and not because my femininity felt threatened. I carry a lot of resentment towards the emphasis placed on the body part over the person (literally the only form of cancer where that's the case), and I think it plays a role in the negativity toward women who take preventative measures. Mostly, the thought of surgery felt like too great a reminder of mortality, the equivalent of having one foot in the grave. 

And yes, I know that's counter intuitive and irrational, but it's how I felt.

What I've realized is I don't want to chance my health and wait until my back is to the wall, but I have some goals I'd like to reach first (to say nothing of financial concerns). 

Right now I'm working toward a green belt in karate. If I maintain my current pace, I can be a third degree brown belt by next summer (unfortunately that just became a bigger 'if' in light of current events). At that point, it's a matter of reviewing everything I've learned so maybe taking a month or two off classes to recover from surgery wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. Plus that belt is actually red, my favorite color. Missing the gym would hurt a bit more, but surely I wouldn't have to skip as many leg days as long as I avoid certain exercises?

I only work out two to three hours a week with an emphasis on strength training for building muscle and strengthening my core to protect bones and joints, and to increase endurance and striking power. And as much as I'm predisposed to dislike routine, it's important for my mental health to maintain one, and it throws me off when it's significantly disrupted (like now). 

But some disruptions are greater and more permanent than others.

So much to do; so little time.

Knowing Your Worth

"Oh, I'm sure there are worse crimes."
"But they starts with thinking about people as things."
- Carpe Jugulum, Terry Pratchett

Whenever I see things about knowing our worth like we're commodities instead of people, it bugs me. I know that's not how it's meant, but the reality is people often do measure the worth of others in terms of things like income. You can't convince me a trust fund baby has more value than a doctor, nurse, or teacher just because they were born to more wealth than the others earn through service. I'm not saying they have less value, either. It shouldn't be about that in the first place.

Eventually we will all be ash or dust no matter who we are in life, so why make things any worse than they have to be for ourselves and others in the meantime?

I also see a lot of messaging about gratitude, and of course we should be grateful for what we have and mindful of the less fortunate, but the people who need the message the most - the richest and most powerful among us - receive it the least. Instead it's used to keep the masses in our place and discourage us from speaking against things that are wrong simply because they could be worse. 

In terms of material comfort, I had a good childhood. I didn't even know I was 'poor' until college. I went to a so-called party school favored by rich kids from out of state who didn't have the grades for Ivy League. My dorm was nine stories, and late night fire alarms as frat pranks were the norm. Each time we had to evacuate and wait for the fire company to come and check every room on every floor. I remember more than one false alarm some nights, and several during final's week when the rich kids booked hotels to avoid them. 

Room and board was raised mid year to cover the cost of an extra fire truck. I also lost my tuition waiver because I received straight Bs. I didn't share someone's resentment that a girl I went to high school with had received a more lenient waiver. She seemed kind and mature, and someone with her accomplishments should have been granted a full ride. As she wasn't the source of my problems, I never begrudged her anything. I earned a new waiver through my major the following semester, and ultimately graduated with a 3.7 or 3.8 for whatever that's worth.

My first roommate's family pulled some strings for her to switch dorms because she thought our suite mates had it in for her; specifically that they were loud and obnoxious to offend her religious sensibilities, and not because that's just who they were. We didn't exactly get along, either, but I guess I was quiet enough she didn't feel threatened. A resident assistant confided she felt bad I had such a nutty roommate, but I was about to find out what it was like to share space with someone who really does have it in for you.

My new roommate, an early graduate, had an abusive boyfriend within her first week (if alarms didn't wake me up at odd hours, their fights did). She routinely skipped class to sleep in or lay out by the pool at the gym. She didn't care for my unfashionable appearance, or the fact I did work on my computer in our room instead of going to the lab or buying essays online like her (cheating was so bad, I had to show ID for some finals because people paid others to take theirs). Eventually, she had some frat buddies harass and threaten me on the phone and online. 

I only had one toxic friendship. I'd never heard of gas lighting, and I didn't know about the steps he'd taken to isolate me from others. I was sleep deprived, losing weight from under-eating (I'm 5'8" and the one time someone made me weigh myself that year, the scale read 100 lbs), and feeling increasingly disconnected from everything and everyone, including myself, when he tried to take advantage of me. 

I remember thinking a few things in rapid overlapping succession: This isn't happening. The big things don't happen to me. I never should have gotten myself into this mess. It's no worse than anyone thinks I deserve. Then another voice cut through the din: I don't care!

In that moment, it didn't matter to me whether or not I had value. I didn't want it. It wasn't happening. I already had my knees against my chest, but now I braced my feet against his stomach, and pushed. He didn't expect it. He knew not to try again. For the first time in a long time, I felt present. This doesn't negate the experiences of those who've been less fortunate. There was a lot of pent up anger behind that push. I was lucky, but I don't feel gratitude for the experiences that contributed to my anger. After all, those experiences left me open to the abuse.

I don't think anger is a useless emotion, either. Nature doesn't work like that. Every emotion plays a role in survival. I've done some of my best writing when I've been angry, and it's taken my stories to some surprising places, even happy endings. Others channel their anger through art or music, or use it to fuel their fight against injustice. It's even a natural part of grieving. 

And once it reminded me I'm here. I exist. That's enough.

Branded

"And sin, young man, is when you treat people like things. Including yourself. That's what sin is." - Carpe Jugulum by Terry Pratchett

I recently read an article about people who quit multi-level marketing jobs (MLMs). Someone said she began seeing people as potential customers instead of potential friends. Another article addressed people monetizing every hobby and interest because consumerism has led us to believe spending time on anything that doesn't turn a profit is a waste. The pervasiveness of this mindset is seen on social media as more people brand themselves, and treat new and existing relationships like an opportunity to make a sale rather than a connection. 

Girls and women with ADHD already have difficulty connecting. I used to overcompensate, which led to being treated as a doormat until people were done walking all over me (and we all know what happens to doormats after they've been dirtied up). I resigned myself to being one of those wives whose husband is her best friend (as if that's a bad thing). 

Once we had our sons, I felt obligated to connect with others and joined a local meet up group for moms. Epic fail due to the perfect storm of my untreated ADHD woes, some catty moms who never grew up, and a creepy dad who began targeting my admittedly high energy toddlers for ridicule after I ignored his nosy late night messages. I later found out he'd been inappropriate and more with some of the moms who did respond, and did the math. I was accustomed to people having problems with me, but now they were taking it out on my boys. 

I realized I wanted friends for myself, but I never wanted myself or my sons in that situation again. And since the boys were going to preschool soon, I no longer felt pressured to make friends for them. When the proverbial poo hit the fan around my birthday (because things always seem to go wrong around my birthday) I researched community theater and tried out for a play. I earned a supporting role. It was fun, and artsy people are an eclectic bunch so I didn't stick out like a sore thumb. 

When we moved again, I turned to the arts once more as a means of expressing myself and making connections with other people. I even found opportunities for paid work, but that was just a bonus. I did learn to set healthy boundaries in terms of what is and isn't a wise investment of my time and resources. Like René Brooks says, "Guard your yes."

What I haven't found is friendship. Making friends in the arts has all the complications of regular friendship magnified by the nature of the arts. You have cliques, social climbers, the occasional creeper with questionable motives, and, oh yeah, the added wrinkle of inevitable rejection. My tolerance for rejection ends the moment I question whether or not it's personal. Even if I don't internalize it, the outcome is the same: I feel bored and left out, or used in the case of people with obvious agendas or friendships that fizzled when projects fell through. 

It's less of an issue in the writing community specifically, but we're a solitary bunch, and it's mostly lonely work. I do know crowdfunding isn't for me. I'll take my piles of anonymous rejections, and self-publish if it comes to that. 

I also have the luxury of pursuing hobbies and interests just for me (like guitar and martial arts) without depending on the acceptance of others. 

Mostly I'm throwing things at the wall, and seeing who or what sticks. 

Crazy Busy, Cool!

I know it looks like I've been doing the flaky ADHD thing since I haven't posted since the end of October, but in my defense, I did successfully participate in National Novel Writing Month in November. The rough draft of my novel isn't done, but it's about two thirds of the way there. 

Then in December, I needed to cram for my next promotion in karate because I wanted to earn my blue belt before winter break. 

Yes, I practice karate. 

No, the additional physical activity has not cured my ADHD. In fact, I wouldn't have accomplished as much as I have without treatment.

As it is, I still need to see an ophthalmologist for a possible visual disorder. I'm actually eagle eyed, but sometimes I feel like I can't watch fast enough so even when I'm as attentive as I need to be, I still have difficulty making sense of what I'm looking at when motion is involved. I can read the smallest line on an eye chart, no problem, but driving around curves or mountain roads can trigger anxiety, and learning karate techniques takes me longer than other people.

Once the Shihan showed me the next move of a bo staff kata I was learning, and I was blown away, and nobody could understand why I was so amazed, and I couldn't understand why it felt so much more mundane when I did it, even though everyone assured me I was doing it correctly. Even now, when I watch someone else, I'm like:

Turns out there's binocular vision disorders that makes your eye muscles work harder to maintain visual clarity, and that's potentially another challenge I've been teased about most of my life that was outside my control without identification and treatment.

Ugh.

I'm not bitter.

(I'm totally bitter.)

I've also spent much of December streamlining my life. I don't think I've been overextending myself in terms of the number of goals and interests I'm pursuing, but my time management has not been the best.

I should have changed gyms as soon as my boys and I became involved in karate because I rarely swim laps at my old gym anymore, and the only reason I went to a gym that was further from home was the pool. My new gym is both closer to home, and within walking distance of our dojo so instead of dorking around on my phone when the boys are in class, I strength train. Then I take my class on alternate nights instead of waiting around after theirs. I'm even working out more, and still saving time and money.

I also have a new to-do list app, but it's set up like an RPG. Apparently there was this whole "gamification" trend in time management apps that's great for those of us with ADHD in particular. I always used to turn everything into a game as a coping skill, for better (beat my best grade) or worse (see how many days I can go without eating my Freshmen year of college) so it made perfect sense. Laugh if you must, but the game aspect aside, it's so much more robust than a conventional to-do list, and helps me ascend my personal Wall of Awful.

It's the free version of Habitica, by the way. I like the clean interface, and it's very user friendly. If improving time management or achieving multiple goals is one of your New Year's resolutions, I highly recommend it, or a similar app of your choosing. 

While I'm recommending things, check out this YouTube channel, How to ADHD. Jessica McCabe introduced me to the whole concept of the Wall of Awful, and has a lot of great insights and information. And I learned about vertical heterophoria from another favorite ADHD resource, René Brooks of Black Girl, Lost Keys. 

Oh, and the Deception anthology featuring my short story, "Alpha", has been available in paperback since November. Same great collection, now with the new book smell!

Author Aly Welch

Trick or Treat?

A tall, dark, and handsome "Alpha" is coming to dinner on Halloween!

The Deception Anthology from Writing Bloc is available for pre-order on Kindle for $2.99. I'm so honored and humbled to be a part of this collection, which includes twenty four stories from newcomers like me and accomplished award winning authors, as well as my husband's chilling "You Might Get It".

His satirical "Convict 45" appeared in the Writing Bloc inaugural anthology, Escape.

I had concerns about submitting a story to their second outing, but submissions were assigned numbers and rated by a committee of readers. The anonymity of the process eased any concerns I had. I'm glad I took the leap. It's nice being accepted by your peers, and knowing it's based solely on the quality of your work.

It's also easier to brace for rejection when you know it isn't personal. My ADHD comes with a side helping of rejection sensitive dysphoria. Rejection goes with the territory when you're involved in the arts, and mostly I find it manageable, but it's magnified when it comes from people you know because you'll always wonder if it's you they're rejecting.

I now have an official author page on Amazon. So far I only have one short story to show for myself, but it's a start. I do have a couple of projects in the works. 

I've talked a lot about Grimalkin, which is developing nicely. In a strange way, scaling back from a planned trilogy to a stand alone novel has allowed me to open the story up to more subplots and thematic content that enriches the overarching plot. At the same time, I'm building a 'world' I may draw on for future stories. Grimalkin was always more lightweight than my short stories; now it has a little more heft.

I'm continuing to work on a collection of stories "Alpha" was originally intended for (and can still be used in). I may submit some of the other stories to other publications, but ultimately look forward to housing them all in one collection of my own. The stories range from horror to sci-fi to urban fantasy. One may even be realistic fiction; it's up to the reader to decide if events are simply cause and effect, or if there's something supernatural afoot.

I may consider self publishing, especially as one title that seemed so clever at the time is losing pop culture relevance and another is appearing all over holiday décor. "Resting Witch Face" was written in 2017, well before the phrase adorned shot glasses and wall plaques. That's all I'm saying. (Basic witches stealing my thunder.)

In the meantime, I'm exciting to share "Alpha" with readers. I'm also wrestling with a bit of Imposter Syndrome. (Then again, the anthology is called Deception. If I'm only pretending to be a writer for Halloween, that makes me even more on theme!)

If you'd prefer a physical copy for that new book smell (my second favorite smell after puppy breath), the release date will be announced soon. 

Author Aly Welch

I'm No Superman

“The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision.” - Helen Keller
Neurological differences are not mental disabilities, and after everything I've observed this past week in particular, I'm beginning to think people who are neurotypical have no business questioning the mental fitness of others. In all seriousness, one type of neurology isn't inherently better (or worse) than another simply because it's the norm. Just means its associated strengths and, yes, weaknesses are more common, and therefore accepted.
Even (especially) those who do have mental disabilities should not be discouraged from advocating for themselves and others. I'm more humbled and inspired by people who overcome challenges than people who coast on mediocrity. Consider people with physical disabilities. Anne Sullivan was nearly blind but saw more than many sighted individuals. Helen Keller could neither see nor hear, but once Sullivan helped her find a way to communicate, she was relentless in her pursuit of knowledge and her advocacy for others.
Back on the subject of neurological disorders, I'm not comfortable with people referring to them superpowers if only because those same people tend to gloss over the fact that even Superman has his kryptonite. Like, my ADHD might allow me to think outside the box or, more to the point, agonize over linear thinkers who don't even think to question the existence of the box, but physics is my kryptonite. These boxes people force themselves into may not be real, but that table I just ran into very much is.
...I haven't actually run into furniture for quite some time.
Batman had Albert and Lucius. Ironman had Jarvis and Pepper. I have a non-stimulant medication.
(I'm basically Batman is what I'm saying. Minus the bad boy antics and inherited wealth.)
((Really, I'm more like Catwoman.))

As for Greta Thunberg, she's a marvel. People attacking her age, gender, or neurological differences instead of critiquing the content of her ideas only reveal their own shortcomings. I often fall short myself. I used to be outspoken, but I let the same kinds of people attacking Greta wear me down. When I first heard her speak, I thought, "Wow, she sounds like me at her age. In my brain. At 3 AM." I also felt ashamed.

I certainly didn't think her fear was unwarranted considering I shared it decades ago and things have only gotten worse, nor did I suspect George Soros put her up to it. If people question Greta's ability to articulate her thoughts so well, it's only because they can't; rather than confront their own weaknesses, they delude themselves into thinking someone else must be behind her strength. Just like people delude themselves into thinking everything is fine to rationalize their own complacency and laziness.

She's the crazy one, not them. Never them.

In the dark ages, if neurological differences didn't lead to accusations of witchcraft, speaking her mind and challenging authority would have.

What interests me is that anti-vaxxors are among her detractors. They still subscribe to the long debunked scam that vaccines cause autism, yet they are fine with Exxon and other global corporations pumping pollutants into the air and water, and Monsanto and Nestle taking over our food and water supplies. Strange how the people most scared of the New World Order are so often the first line of defense for its closest approximation.
Someone said she had no business complaining because people are starving in Africa. There's people starving everywhere, and some people in Africa are not only fine, they're at the forefront of addressing everything from hunger to renewable energy. That, and the root cause of problems like world hunger and pollution is the same corporate greed. By the way, there's more to Africa than what you see on late night television, and the diverse people of its 54 countries deserve better than being reduced to a scary story for finicky eaters.
To Greta I apologize that people like myself don't share your strength and fortitude, and that other people are threatened by smart girls who dare to speak out, and that in many ways, we're still living in the dark ages.

Work in Progress (Not Perfection)

“Being a writer is a very peculiar sort of a job: it's always you versus a blank sheet of paper (or a blank screen) and quite often the blank piece of paper wins.” - Neil Gaiman

Speaking of new beginnings - I say like it hasn't been over two months since my last post - I began work on the umpteenth re-imagining of my novel Grimalkin. Which is to say, I wrote over a chapter in a fit of inspiration one day; and I have spent every day since developing characters and working out the plot, mostly while showering, trying to sleep, or even driving.

Mind you, I always pay attention to cars and lights and stop signs and little woodland creatures, but once I missed a turn, and another time I thought I missed a turn only to realize I was totally on track, if a bit discombobulated from lost time.

(Seriously, though - don't plot and drive.)

Little remains of the last incarnation, apart from the general setting and a few characters, some re-imagined much like the story itself. Ironically, one of the supporting characters that made the cut was one I intended to remove, but there's a stronger case for her now, and I can't imagine Grimalkin without her. 

I've also been polishing my short story, "Alpha" (soon to be published), dabbling in other pursuits, and battling crippling self doubt. It's been a tough summer that began with an unexpected pet death and culminated in adjusting to a higher dose of a non-stimulant while managing grief and lifelong frustrations magnified by the worsening state of the world.

Recently I saw a Tumblr post from another writer with ADHD about Terry Pratchett. Pratchett set a surprisingly modest daily writing goal of 400 words for being such a prolific writer, and it just sounded so tantalizingly manageable. I glanced back at the new beginning of Grimalkin, which is more than double that, and I don't think it took me over an hour to churn it out. 

Of course, that's my typical MO: either the words pour out, or they bottleneck somewhere between brain and fingers. Supposedly Writer's Block is a myth, and anyone who experiences it isn't REALLY a writer, but surely irritability can plague the brain as much as the bowels. 

(Yes, I know it's a gross analogy, but it's also pretty accurate, though I do hope the actual output of my brain isn't proverbial poo.)

((Then again, that often sells...))

Moving on...

I debated sharing the new opening chapter of Grimalkin or excerpts from my other short stories, and maybe I still will, but I do plan to release a proper website. I just have to pick a host and relearn coding, and honestly, it all just sounds an awful lot like work. 

(It's possible I may be lazy independently of having poor executive functioning.)

((It's also possible my ongoing woes about the futility of life coupled with my inability to find the right words to inspire positive change have killed my motivation.)) 

(((No, I'm not depressed, at least not clinically, just...paying attention.)))

I've been leery of speaking precisely for fear of providing a glimpse of what it's like inside my brain when I let my thoughts run amok, but maybe that's what I need to ease the bottleneck. And, bringing this post full circle, my existential angst has been key to thematic content and the development of one of the supporting characters in Grimalkin. 

I can assure you she's more optimistic than I am. 

It's easy when you're written that way.

https://writingbloc.com/announcement-of-the-stories-and-authors-for-the-upcoming-deception-anthology/

A New Beginning

“I was not happy as a child, although from time to time I was content. I lived in books more than I lived anywhere else.” - Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane

I've always wanted to write (and act, and sing and play guitar and piano in a rock band, and direct, etc.) but before that I was a reader. I still remember cracking the code and learning to read in Kindergarten. It opened new worlds to me, and I wanted to explore them all. 

My favorite book as a child that remains one of my favorites today was Howliday Inn by James Howe; Bunnicula by James and Deborah Howe was and is a close second. Both books aged well, and are great for reading aloud to children.

Within a few years, I was maxing out my library card with a stack of chapter books: Nancy Drew (the newer ones from the 80s when she actually did stuff), Sweet Valley Twins, Sweet Valley High, The Babysitter's Club, The Fabulous Five, and so on. I'd be done within a matter of days, to my dad's dismay. 

My dad introduced me to The Gunslinger by Stephen King in fifth grade. I'd already flipped through his gruesome graphic novella Cycle of the Werewolf by the time I was nine. He even gave the library permission to let me check out adult novels, hoping it would extend the time between visits but fewer could be checked out at a time, and I still blew through King and Koontz pretty quickly as well.

It's no surprise that some of my own writing was hailed as "well written but kind of morbid," a childhood memory my husband and I strangely have in common.

The golden era was when I happened upon the YA section. Back then it was mostly Sweet Valley U (which was oddly, consistently bleak) and romance, but YA horror was a growing sub genre dominated by Fear Street by R.L. Stine (which I recognized as schlock, but still devoured) and also books by Christopher Pike and trilogies by L. J. Smith.

The trilogy format really captured my interest as both a reader and writer. So many of the books I've attempted over the years were developed as potential trilogies. There was just one huge, glaring problem: I'm great at ideas; I'm bad at finishing anything I start.

Shocker, I know.

I came to two big epiphanies this year: I need to start small, and I need to go back to basics. And by going back to basics, I mean way back. The first stories weren't written. They were passed down orally. And the one thing my favorite books have in common, be it the original Bunnicula series of my youth or the Discworld books of Sir Terry Pratchett I discovered as an adult, is that they are as pleasurable to read aloud as they are on the page.

To the end of starting small, my first published work will not be a trilogy or even a novel, but a short story aptly named "Alpha." 

The story began not with an idea but with a quote.

Sir Terry Pratchett once advised "Fantasy doesn’t have to be fantastic. American writers in particular find this much harder to grasp. You need to have your feet on the ground as much as your head in the clouds. The cute dragon that sits on your shoulder also craps all down your back, but this makes it more interesting because it gives it an added dimension."

I realized this was part of what made his stories so enjoyable to me and wondered if I could challenge myself to apply a similar approach. I'm not good at world building, so I decided I wanted to delve into magical realism with a story taking a ridiculous notion growing in popularity to its literal extreme.

I don't want to give too much away, but "Alpha" is the culmination of that writing experiment, and it has been selected for publishing in the WritingBloc Deception! anthology. 

It's not just a start.

It's the start.

https://writingbloc.com/announcement-of-the-stories-and-authors-for-the-upcoming-deception-anthology/

Through the Looking Glass

Last year my diagnosing psychologist said there wasn’t a place ADHD ended and I began, but in the year since, I’ve learned that’s not entirely true. While I didn’t see her until last year, I knew the time had come nearly a year prior.

For the third time in as many months, I hit my head badly enough to break the skin. I parked my car and looked at my phone. I saw something that triggered my anger. When I stepped out of the car, I thought I’d forgotten my purse (it was already slung over my shoulder.) I quickly turned, smacked my head less than an inch from my temple, and saw stars. I had to sit for several minutes. The pain was so intense, it radiated to my shoulder.

Just a week later I managed to get a goose egg on the other side of my head from my locker at the gym.

Again.

Anyway, my first step was mentioning the possibility of ADHD to my husband. As expected, he looked at me like I was crazy. Then I could see something click into place. He finally had an explanation for at least some of my quirks that confounded him since the beginning: my impatience, aimless wandering, random outbursts, spacing out, procrastination...

...It only took several months later to seek help. I worried she would say nothing was wrong with me; I was just crazy. Even when she confirmed my diagnosis, I still asked if I was crazy. She assured me I was sane. Given her profit model, I felt safe taking it to heart. Besides, it’s not in my nature to sugarcoat personal failings; what would be the point?

"She generally gave herself very good advice (though she very seldom followed it), and sometimes she scolded herself so severely as to bring tears to her eyes..."

- Through the Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll

Then I saw my physician and started taking 40 mg of a non-stimulant proven to ease ADHD symptoms. Even if it worked, it would never be as effective as a stimulant and it would take longer to have a noticeable effect, but it would work 24/7 once it did.

The only side effects I’ve experienced were temporary. Synthetic food tasted bad, and I didn’t crave sweets and salty foods as much (Kraft Mac ‘n Cheese still tastes sugary and gross.) I have a theory it’s not so much that our medication kills our appetites; rather, so many of us eat for the wrong reasons, like boredom and sadness, we have to learn how to eat to live instead of living to eat when the compulsion is gone.

After a couple weeks, I was driving to the gym with nothing on my mind except the next lyric of the song I was listening to, and anything directly related to the drive. It freaked me out. I told my husband, and he just looked at me like, “and?” It turns out everybody else doesn’t have three or four trains of thought at all times, even and especially while driving.

“Y’all don’t do a lot of thinking, do you?” I asked, at once envious and horrified.

"We sleepwalk through our lives, because how could we live if we were always this awake?”

- Terry Pratchett, The Wee Free Men

I worried the medication was doing what so many naysayers claim it does, and robbing me of my personality. As it turns out, I can still juggle multiple trains of thought; I just have control over when I do instead of being at my brain’s mercy when I should focus on driving or working, or when I want to sleep.

I felt better rested, and even though I still loathed chores and the daily minutiae, they became more tolerable. I almost never lost my keys, sunglasses, or phone anymore.

Everything was great, until late summer. My husband noticed a decline, too. Normally the dosage is increased from 40 mg to 80 mg after a few weeks if there’s no concerning side effects because 40 mg isn’t enough for most. I’d been fine at 40 mg for several months, but part of me was scared. What if increasing it made no difference?

After months of enjoying a sense of normalcy I never knew I was missing, I couldn’t go back. I kept thinking about the novel Flowers for Algernon. Yeah, it was about a guy that went from an IQ in the 60s to a genius before his treatment started to wear off, not someone who just had ADHD and an above average IQ to compensate, but his loneliness resonated with me.

"I just want to be smart like other pepul so I can have lots of frends." 

- Daniel Keyes, Flowers for Algernon

Fortunately the increase helped. My husband worried I was slipping again in December, but I was confident it was just the holiday excitement.

One day I came home on a lunch break and watched my favorite YouTuber talk about ADHD and accidents. I realized the last time I hurt myself was breaking my toe in karate a couple months before, a totally normal sports injury. I was excited to share my progress, but then I realized I was running late, so I ran out the door and hit my head getting into the car. Not hard, but I was embarrassed and didn’t want my husband to know.

I can be increased to 100 mg, but that’s the highest allowable dosage. The alternative is trying stimulants. They are called stimulants because they stimulate production of chemicals we don’t produce as well as people who are neurotypical (stimulants function very differently in NTs who abuse them.) The downside is they only last so long and we can still be plagued by problems like insomnia, which exacerbate symptoms.

I’m not a zombie. Medication didn’t change my personality. If anything, I have a better sense of who I am. I’m still very much go, go, go, and I want to do all the things - but I’m actually competent and stick with them. My abilities are starting to match my ambitions. Who knows what I could have accomplished had I done something sooner.

"That's the thing about human life--there is no control group, no way to ever know how any of us would have turned out if any variables had been changed.”

- Daniel Keyes, Flowers for Algernon

I’m also less of a danger to myself and others.
No, we aren’t ALL a little ADHD any more than anyone who is sad now and then can be said to suffer from actual depression (that was one of those short term side effects - holy crap! - glad it was temporary.) And it’s not just whimsical personality quirks to be celebrated and embraced either (though understanding from others certainly helps.)
Depending on severity, we’re at greater risk for injury (including car accidents and self harm) and death. Emotional dis-regulation, inattention, and impulsiveness can be dangerous. Who knew?
I don’t even have legs riddled with mystery bruises from bumping into stationary objects (in my own home!) anymore. All my life I thought I was clumsy and uncoordinated, but maybe that’s one place where the line between ADHD and me can be drawn.

"Who in the world am I? Ah, that's the great puzzle.”

- Through the Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll

I also have a clearer sense of where I fit in my problems, and while ADHD poses challenges to maintaining friendships, it’s not always my fault when things go wrong, though it does make me a convenient scapegoat just as I sometimes observe happening to my son or others with neurological differences.

The biggest disappointment about medication is that while it can help what’s wrong with me, it can’t do anything about anyone else. I foolishly imagined I’d suddenly know all the right things to say at exactly the right time to fix...well, everything, but I have to settle for being less of a walking disaster.

As originally posted on social media spring 2019