originally written for Medium.com • Photo by Keagan Henman on Unsplash
The Deeper Long-Term Effects of Late-Diagnosis ADHD
I was interviewed recently by the hosts of a decluttering podcast (link to come later, it’s not online yet!). I’ve been writing about organization systems and techniques for decades. I have always enjoyed trying out new systems, finding out the advantages and limitations and constantly re-optimizing them in various ways whether physical (whiteboards and labeled boxes!), paper (53 folders! File cabinets and notebooks!) or digital (Obsidian! Notion! Johnny Decimal! Tags, tags, so many tags…).
It’s gotten to the point where I have to finally accept that it’s not so much a “need to get organized” as a hobby that I enjoy. Being a productivity/organization nerd for so long has made me into a bit of a resource for friends and clients as well; in any given situation, I usually can find a few different ways to organize, systematize, and optimize it, with a good idea of the pros and cons of each system.
A long chat with a couple of decluttering enthusiasts was a wonderful way to spend a Saturday afternoon, and we laughed and traded ideas and experiences for over an hour. Finally one of the hosts asked me a question that resonated more deeply than I expected:
Has your diagnosis of ADHD changed any of the ways you approach decluttering or organizing?
Seems like an easy question, right? I could just point to the ADHD-friendly PDF planner, or my ADHD everyday carry kit, or something like that.
But for some reason, the conversation sent my brain into deeper, more existential motivations, and two seemingly contradictory words bubbled up to the surface of my brain.
“Yes. I give myself more grace, and more discipline.
Grace is hard for a recovering workaholic ex-hustle-culture single-parent former Marine.
Love languages are one thing — what about “motivational” languages? We all have varying ways of talking ourselves into doing things, as well as giving feedback to ourselves about the things we’ve done. Quite often these voices are echoes of the voices we internalized from others in our lives — parents, peers, teachers, partners, bosses, mentors, even books or podcasts.
To use a distasteful example, a “pickup artist” enthusiast will likely start referring to people in terms of how attractive they find them — usually with a number, because objectifying other people with labels is much easier than actually interacting with them.
But the interesting thing is that they also will refer to themselves with that numbering system — and it becomes a motivation for self-improvement. I’m only a six, but if I get in shape and dress better I could move up to a seven or eight and then I’ll have a chance with a nine, maybe even a not-picky ten!
Gross, and also effective in some people I’ve met in getting them to pay more attention to their health and appearance.
Even more distasteful and also unfortunately effective is the use of self-directed shame and anger as a motivator. I know this because many of my own accomplishments and “good habits” came from this kind of motivation. Nobody beats me up better than the drill instructor in my head (What do you mean you don’t feel like working out? Since when does a man your age have a choice in that? I don’t know what I did to deserve to be stuck in the head of someone this pathetic!).
Or shame: No wonder your blog numbers fell. You don’t get up at 5 am and write anymore, the way real writers do. Might as well just keep scrolling Instagram, your work isn’t ever going to amount to anything anyway.
Or just things not being good enough, even when they do get done: Sure, you think you’re a clever writer, coming up with these little voices in your head — but three? Four examples if you count the pickup artist? That’s ridiculous. Nobody’s going to read that much. You should have spent more time editing, instead of just squeezing in your writing on your lunch break. No wonder you’re not a Top Writer.
That’s been my motivation for most of my life. Bullying and berating and belittling myself into getting things done — and it’s been quite effective, because I’ve done a lot of things, and certainly achieved the mainstream milestones of masculine success.
And amidst being treated for the depression and anxiety that was the result of all that “success” came the news from my therapist and my psychiatrist.
Oh. You have ADHD, combined type, and it’s pretty obvious that you’ve had it your entire life.
That diagnosis added a new voice in my head.
Suddenly there was a new set of ideas in my head, a clarification of the contributing factors to a huge number of decisions, events, and behaviors in my life. The simple understanding that my brain does not process dopamine the way that approximately 97% of other brains do explained why so much of the world I lived in — the world designed to work for that other 97% — didn’t make sense to me, and was a struggle to function in.
That lent a voice of grace to my inner dialogue. When I couldn’t remember something — a name, a location, an event — that I knew I was actually familiar with, it wasn’t a matter of “trying harder”. I stopped saying “I’m sorry, I don’t remember” and instead said “I’m sorry — my brain’s not giving me access to that information right now.” Sometimes I’d follow it up with “But don’t worry, it will later on — way too late to be useful, but at least I know it’s there!”
I understand now that there are some things my brain simply does not do well — and some of them I can make a bit better with things like sleep or meds, but that’s not going to fix anything — it simply mitigates the effects.
My obsession with organization, habit change and self-improvement over the years was my brain trying desperately to find a solution to a problem that it could feel but never really understand. It was like getting new tyres on the car when there was a problem with the fuel line. I’d managed to haphazardly create enough scaffolding in my life to not only function but occasionally thrive as an adult — but it was exhausting, and in the end, I found myself in that aforementioned constant state of anxiety and depression.
Some of that is still there. When I don’t get enough sleep, forget my meds, or simply have the chaos of a day negate the scaffolding, I simply have to accept that I’m not going to be as functional in the world that day as I would like to be. No amount of coffee, power naps, or affirmations is going to fix that, any more than they would fix the pain in my de-cartilaged knees when I’m facing a flight of stairs during a Wisconsin winter.
That understanding does change the motivation a bit. None of those other voices are the types to pick on someone with a disability, so there’s less You’re all worthless and weak! and more Give it the best you can!
It also means that many — not all — of the what were you thinking?!? moments in my past make so much sense. Why did that data entry job feel like it was torture, when everyone else seemed to find it just annoying? Because my brain needs variety, and insurance forms don’t give that. Why did I time after time suddenly feel like all the spark had gone out of a relationship, and spend so much time chasing new relationship energy? Why did I love being a freelancer working on different projects, or a presenter and event producer traveling around the world, to the point where I burned myself out?
All of it came down to because that’s how your brain works, Gray, and you didn’t know that. You’re not a failure. You just can’t solve a problem you don’t even know exists.
Grace. Healing, even.
But along with it comes the corollary:
Now, though, you know what’s going on. And that means some things have to change.
And that’s what we’ll get into in the next part of this series.