Prologue

Seven, six ….

A paralyzing fear gripped me as I waited for my name to be called. The University of Minnesota, my alma mater, had named me one of the College of Liberal Arts’ Alumni of Notable Achievement for 2008 and now, one by one, the other honorees stood to accept the room’s applause and accolades. All I heard was that old soundtrack of negativity blaring in my head:

You don’t belong here. You’ve done nothing with your life. You’re worthless.

Definitely had a down beat, but not one you could dance to.

Diane, the woman who nominated me for the award, sat to my right at the gala dinner. She worked at the university’s foundation, and when she told me about the honor, it felt like confirmation that my life, for all its sidetracks and pratfalls, did have some purpose. I mean, my name would be forever etched in the annals of Gopher history, linked to the likes of Garrison Keillor … Cheryl Strayed … Thomas Friedman … Yanni!

As usual, my self-esteem gave way to self-abasement. “You’re sure there’s not some mistake?” I asked.

“Look, you’re a successful woman,” Diane said. “You run your own business.”

“I just freelance.” Now, I am quite the pro at downplaying achievements and dismissing any compliment.

“You work for a glamorous travel company, and get to write about all of your exotic adventures. It’s a dream job.”

But it wasn’t my dream. That had been screenwriting. And after numerous opportunities and near misses with the Sundance Institute and a few Hollywood producers, I’d given up. No, worse than that: I had settled. A writer who wrote herself off.

Just admit it: You’re a miserable failure. Loser with a capital “L.”

“And,” Diane added, “you’ve overcome a lot in your life to get here. You should be proud.”

I shrugged. “Others have gone through a lot worse.”

And didn’t fuck everything up in the process.

“Fine,” she said. “Then don’t think of it as recognition for what you’ve done. Think of it as for all that you’ve yet to accomplish.”

Oh, great. No pressure there!

Beneath the pessimism, though, sat a real and rare sense of pride. I ran out and dropped a cool grand on a new outfit: mustard pouf skirt, turquoise suede belt, Spanish leather ankle boots as soft as a baby’s bottom. I spent hours visualizing the ceremony, practicing small talk and my thank you speech in an effort to quash the inevitable anxiety I felt at social gatherings. With my copper hair newly coiffed and nails gelled, I flew back to Minnesota for the big event. Okay, so I didn’t have anyone to share the occasion with, after burning more bridges than crossed the Mississippi. This would show them; hell, it would show me. I was worthy. I finally was somebody.

Just not somebody who deserved to be mentioned among these people.

Three, two ….

Negativity’s greatest hits were dialed up to eleven as I listened to the accomplishments of my fellow honorees. One was a renowned stage actor. An esteemed Jewish poet sat next to a public consultant who helped enact a safe harbor law for exploited children. There were a number of doctors and prominent civic leaders. Even a U.S. District Court judge, for Christ’s sake. Sitting there in my colorful new duds, I felt like a clown.

You don’t deserve this. You’re nothing compared to these people. You didn’t even graduate with your class! You’re a fraud, a sham. You’re worthless.

The soundtrack blasted so loud, I didn’t hear my name.

“…Susan M. Hanson.”

Diane gently nudged my arm. I turned to her in a daze, my eyes pleading to somehow get me out of this. Finally, I stood.

“I, I don’t know what I’m doing here.” The other attendees smiled warmly during my awkwardly long pause, all my scripted lines now lost. “I hope someday I deserve this.”

It would take a decade—and another catastrophe, or six—for me to comprehend this nagging sense of unworthiness. I have since learned that it hangs around the neck of most women with ADHD, especially those who are diagnosed later in life.

That diagnosis was an epiphany for me, a bolt of clarity as to why I kept making the same mistakes over and over. Why, despite the best of intentions, I could never seem to achieve my goals. Why I was constantly distracted by a new shiny object or bad boy, searching for the next hit of dopamine (or just dope — lots and lots of dope). Why I lost interest in things so quickly, or got so hyper-focused I would forget to eat. Why I couldn’t remember names, or directions, or how to make small talk. Why I couldn’t just be normal.

Turns out, for the ADHD brain, being disorganized and distracted is normal. Phew! Here all this time I thought I was crazy, I was just crazy being me.

Now, to be fair, ADHD can be particularly challenging to diagnose in girls, who often don’t display the hyperactive behavior associated with boys. Of course, no one can see the constant barrage of thoughts, emotions, and incoming stimuli ricocheting around their brains like first-graders in a bouncy castle. Often they’re written off as spacey or unmotivated (“You have so much potential. If you’d just try harder …”). Even worse is getting misdiagnosed with depression or bipolar or some other mental illness, and the subsequent psychotropics that turn the ol’ noggin into even more of a noodle.

Trust me, having a major neurochemical condition is no picnic. Yet finally knowing is better than believing that you’re lazy or undeserved or defective. Or that you really, really must have fucked up in a past lifetime. Besides, getting through the countless mishaps, missteps, and missed opportunities is an achievement in its own right, I suppose. There’s a certain honor that comes with picking yourself up, dusting yourself off, and carrying on.

As for such symptoms as impulsivity and constant restlessness: Well, for me at least, they’ve led to plenty of adventures. I’ll bet very few of those CLA honorees have lived in LA flophouses and rendezvoused with CIA operatives … smoked a hookah with a shopkeeper in Sharm-el-Sheik and enjoyed lusty romps at sea with handsome rogues … chauffeured John Lee Hooker and talked hoops with Spike Lee. My life may not have turned out the way I planned all those years ago as an undergrad on the University of Minnesota campus, but it has been a hell of a ride.

So here is my story — one of lost keys, lost opportunities, and a newfound sense of self. Like me, it’s a bit scatty; but if you follow the thread, I think you’ll find a colorful tapestry woven inside. It may not earn me a seat at that awards table, but sharing my journey has allowed me to come out of the closet of shame and guilt. I hope it offers some insight into the inner workings of the ADHD mind, both the pain and the possibilities, as well as some explanation (not excuse) to those I may have wronged or left wondering along the way.

Mostly, though, I write this for all of the other ADHD women out there who, despite the constant struggles and setbacks, are just crazy enough to carry on in the hope of becoming their true selves, mustard pouf skirts and all.

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