My doctor asked if I’d written a book.
“Yes,” I said. “A novel.”
She looked down at the assessment pages and shook her head. “It’s amazing you were able to finish anything at all.”
I was there for an ADHD screening, something I’d been suspicious I’d had for some time. Now, confirmation from my doctor untied a knot inside me. Silently, in the mint green exam room, I began to cry.
All my life, my attention has felt like a barbed wire hook dragging along subjects and tasks. Sometimes the hook could sink into something deep and quick. When it did, there’s nearly nothing that could remove it, and hours would stream by without me noticing. I’d forget to eat and go to the bathroom. Night’s arrival would be the only cue to the time that’d passed. I learned to work like this, locking myself away for five, six, ten hours at a time. My wife brought me food or tea when they noticed I hadn’t left the studio in hours.
At some point, I lost the ability to sink the hook. Instead, it bumped against tasks and then quickly let go. I’d felt frozen for the year and a half leading up to the doctor’s appointment. All I wanted to do was write, but I couldn’t make myself sit still. It wasn’t long before I couldn’t do anything at all. No cleaning or laundry. No getting dressed to meet a friend for coffee. I spent many days staring at the wall, begging myself to get up and do something, anything.
The appointment was a last resort. I’d tried meditating, listening to binaural beats for creativity and focus, bullet journaling, writing five million to-do lists, and downloading ADHD task lists as game apps. I quit smoking weed. I went to bed at a regular hour, convincing myself lack of sleep was to blame. I built a morning routine that ended with me at the desk. I built a morning routine that began with me at the desk. I changed clothes anytime I felt my focus slipping. I deleted all social media from my phone. I set up web blockers so strong I couldn’t access the internet without powering down my devices.
And still the hook did not catch.
My doctor set down her papers and leaned across the room, finding my eyes. “Outside of capitalism, this wouldn’t matter. Without work and deadlines, you’d be able to move through life however you pleased. You aren’t broken,” she said.
Then, she offered me a prescription. I was weary. Most drugs prescribed for the treatment of ADHD are some form of amphetamines. I have family addicted to speed and have lost friends to crystal. I’ve had my own issues with substance abuse and am a recovering alcoholic. For me, addiction always looms.
I told my doctor that I’d do just about anything to get my brain to function, but I was nervous about becoming addicted.
“Don’t take more than your daily dose, ever,” she said. “If you have days of rest, you can skip doses. If you follow the guidelines, you’ll be low risk for addiction.” (She’s right. Turns out that staying medicated for ADHD lowers your risk of substance abuse. Drug use is almost always a way of self-medicating.)
We decided I’d try a small dose and see how I felt. “It’s okay to need this,” my doctor insisted. “It’s okay to give yourself what you need.”
I took the meds for the first time on a Saturday. I had to gather some materials for a workshop I was leading in a month, a process that often takes weeks to complete due to my inability to concentrate. I sat down with my stack of books and began searching for the stories I wanted to include in the class. About ten minutes into the task, my brain went quiet, a quiet I hadn’t heard since I’d quit drinking. I felt present. I felt my body. The hook was sunk.
I read story after story. An hour later, I’d settled on two. Normally, I’d wait weeks before scanning the pages, procrastinating as long as I could, but the task didn’t seem insurmountable like usual, so I went into the studio and uploaded the stories immediately. Thirty minutes later, the entire task was complete.
I cried again.
Over the past year, Adderall has been in the news a lot. Adult women diagnosed with ADHD doubled between 2020 and 2022. Production can’t keep up with demand. Worried about rising prescriptions, some pharmacies have made it difficult for doctors to prescribe the drug and for patients to receive their prescriptions. I trudge into the comments on these news posts and find people insisting everyone who’s medicated for ADHD is simply an addict or someone “willing to drug themselves so they can be more productive.”
For me, it’s not about productivity. It’s about getting my brain back. Most mornings, I take my meds after I get out of the shower. I take them and then, promptly forget I took them (a problem so bad, we bought a pill container with a timer on the lid that counts the hours since the bottle was last opened). When I’m medicated, I can hold conversations with my wife without walking out of the room mid-sentence, do the dishes without having a panic attack, or sit and read a book without reaching for my phone on the first page. Sometimes, I take my meds and my mind grows so quiet, I fall back asleep for an hour. There’s also a plethora of things I didn’t realize were affected by my ADHD. I don’t really get upset in traffic anymore. I’m rarely late. I am more patient with my friends and my dogs. When I go for a walk, I’m happy to stop and watch a bee buzz between flowers. I eat when I’m hungry. My nervous system is calmer. I don’t need to rush back to the house after leaving to make sure the stove is off and front door locked. I’m more observant. I can hold space for my emotions more easily (like, I think I get Radical Acceptance now?). Of course, my meds also lead me to my desk each morning with such consistency I’ve finished the second novel.
A few months ago, my wife sent me a TikTok by an ADHD researcher likening taking meds to needing glasses. That’s how it feels to me. Do I need my glasses every waking hour? No, but I need them if I want to see anything past my reach.
I’m not sure if neurotypical people really understand what it’s like to have a brain like mine. I love my mind. It makes wild connections many don’t see. It thinks quickly, flitting between subjects. My mind loves obsession, lives for it actually. But unmedicated, my brain cannot be made to focus. It moves so fast that my attention spreads itself thin, touching a million different tasks without focusing on any of them. It’s a type of torture. This is what I want to scream at the people who think it’s about productivity. I don’t take my meds so that I can get more work done. I take them so I can get any work done. My life changed for the better eighteen months ago when my doctor offered me medication and I said yes. It’s not always easy, but giving ourselves what we need allows us to do the things we love.
What I’m reading: I’ve been reading a ton lately, but most recently I finished (and loved!) Charlie J. Stephens’s A Wounded Deer Leaps Highest, out now from Torrey House Press. Charlie and I will be in conversation at Bishop & Wilde in Portland, OR on April 26th.
What I’m watching: Just finished 3 Body Problem on Netflix. Holy hell, this show!