I have a secret: I am not all that flexible. I like things a certain way, and until I had kids, the universe granted me that. My way. And then, my life turned into a partnership, which allowed for slightly less of my way, but still, it was manageable. But then kids came along, and suddenly I don’t have a way. My way. It’s gone.

I thrive on routines and schedules and my way. And there’s a solid reason for that. I have ADHD. And not the kind where you are having a scatterbrained day, and absentmindedly declare yourself, “so ADHD I just can’t get it together.” Mine is real. My name is Melissa and I have ADHD.

I was diagnosed one year ago, by a well-respected doctor, who told me as I was leaving his office in complete shock, “…and it’s the worst case of adult ADHD I’ve ever come across.” Thanks, doc. That’s good for my self-esteem. And then, to add insult to injury, the medicine he prescribed made me insane. Literally. And so I found a new doctor. Because I was sure that there was no way I could have ADHD. But she was sure of it, too. As sure as the first doctor. As in, “wow, that’s the most extreme case of Adult ADHD I’ve come across in my very long career.” I still doubted her diagnosis, although slightly less so because she, herself, was diagnosed with ADHD at the age of 48. So she knew. And she gave me a new medicine. And it works wonders. And suddenly life is more orderly, which is something I’ve striven for my entire life. Order. Which so obviously explains why I am so fanatical about lists and schedules and routines. Because I need them. Because I can’t get through my day without them.

Added to my extreme case of Adult ADHD is anxiety. Crippling anxiety. The kind that calls for medication. Which I was taking so happily for about two weeks. The best two weeks of my life. I was getting things done, I was having fun, I was not worried about anything. Until I pulled up my pants one morning, and couldn’t get them past my thighs. And stepped on the scale, then stepped off the scale. And wept. I had gained over five pounds in two weeks. And that’s when I knew that I would never take my anti-anxiety medication again. So I stopped. Cold turkey. Stupid. Do not ever stop a mind medicine cold turkey unless you are under the immediate supervision of a medical professional. Because even after I had only been on the medication for two weeks, and so was certain that it would leave my system easily, I found out the hard way, while home alone for a long week with the girls, taxes due, no outside help and an extra five pounds on my frame that sent me into a shame so great I couldn’t leave the house, that I was so wrong. It would not – and did not – leave my system easily.

Now, it’s all behind me. But back in the real world for someone who has an anxiety that cannot be managed without the help of medication, I can tell you that life? Is really taking me to the mat. I am a kind of tired that can’t be put into words. And it’s just been one thing after another. No relief. Taxes. Emergency trips to the vet. Ear infections. Sinus infections. Husband out of town for days on end. Cold sores. Struggle to shed 5 extra pounds. Broken oven. Leaking washing machine. A nearly-finished hand-knit scarf violently shredded with a pair of shears. An almost-4-year old who won’t sleep in her own room. A toddler who is testing my patience and my ability to bruise like a banana by using her fists to get what she wants. An older kid who screams, “No, Coco!” all day long at her little sister, until I think my ears are going to bleed. I could go on and on, but I am not going to. Why? I’m pretty sure that your life looks much like mine does. But I bet you cope a lot better than I do, right? Maybe you can look at that list and think, such is life? Big deal? Shit happens. Get over it. But I can’t do that. Not without meds. I look at that list and think, oh I can’t do this. I’m done. I’m finished. I’m out of here.

Seeing my doctor again on Monday, and trying so hard to focus on the good and the beautiful until then. Telling myself that life indeed will go on if the girls eat cookies for dinner. That it’s okay if I don’t mop the kitchen floors this Sunday. That if Pea wants to wear her nightgown as a dress, no one is going to call me out as an unfit mother. That it’s okay to ask for help from my friends, whom I’m so lucky to have. Women who get me, who live a life parallel to mine, who respond to my statement of, “oh my God, it was so bad I threw a cup against the wall” with, “just one? I threw two.” Women who come and rescue me, take me out to lunch at the Irish pub, ply me with Shepherd’s Pie, a couple of pints and lots of laughter.

I love to laugh.

Thanks, ladies…