In Desperate Times - Bring on the Ritalin...

Okay, given the number of projects I start on a regular basis and the number of plans I have hidden up my sleeves at any given time, at some level I am sort of wondering if I should have been diagnosed with ADHD as a child. 

I even wonder if other people consider such possibilities...  Undiagnosed adult ADHD sufferers who never just quite knew what the issue was...   

So what I would like to know is whether Ritalin would enable me to continue to focus in a job that does the same thing over and over and over and over again?  Because even the previous four 'overs' are enough to lead me in search of new information, yet alone the daily grind of doing the same thing day in and day out.   

I have also been told by a friend of mine that I don’t ‘stick to things’ (bastard – who are you to judge).  And I have been analysing the situation closely wondering if perhaps there might be some truth to that as I am in search of yet other opportunities in the workplace, yet again.  Yeah, I know;  nobody wants to hear it.   

And as such while there is some evidence that suggests that might be the case; the jury is still outstanding on the verdict although my tendency to go back to school (again) was met with my editor querying whether there are support groups for people like me.  ‘Information addicts are us’ or something.    

So in an effort to collect data on the situation I proceeded to do an online Adult ADHD test.  Now the test itself has a disclaimer that states ‘this is not a diagnostic tool’. 

That said, the test scales states that:

If you scored 34 & up... You may have symptoms of Adult ADHD.

My score: 41.  (http://psychcentral.com/cgi-bin/addquiz.cgi) 

 – Yep there it is... as everyone close to me has probably suspected for a very long time.   

Now before I delve into the implications of that diagnostic, I do need to briefly reflect on the positioning and potential bias of some of the questions.  One of which refers to whether one gets irritated while waiting in a queue.  Except that the test is not South African and so it states ‘waiting in line’. 

Unfortunately, in a country that prioritizes customer service, this may be an indication, but nobody who ever goes to a bank on a weekend at month end in South Africa comes out with the same blood pressure they went in with.  You see, here, instead increasing the speed of customer service, we put chairs and television sets to entertain the queue while they wait.  Like watching the third rerun of some dated television show / sports programme is going to disguise the irritation that an hour and a half has pasted while you were waiting in line. 

Thus I have concluded that those departing with ‘no irritation’, probably have ‘no pulse.’ 

Does that then mean we have a whole country with high levels of ADHD?  I doubt it.  Wide spread lousy customer service - maybe.   

Truth be told, I wonder how many kids diagnosed with ADHD just process information differently. 

From experience, information I receive needs to have a use and a purpose and fit into information already in my brain.  It also gets rewritten in a different format (implications, importance, etc.) before storing, – into what I deem to be, ‘a more useable format J’. Thus, yes, there is a lot of noise and static in my brain.  That said; I struggle to reproduce exactly what someone else has done and said, a characteristic which has shown up in my school marks my entire life – especially in an environment where regurgitation is considered more desirable than critical thinking.  And so I find memorisation to be extremely difficult, but critical thinking and strategy come much easier.      

Thus, I will need to delve into my mind and see how far the jury is in the diagnostic as there appears to be substantial evidence both for and against...        

Upon an analysis of the evidence, I may be inclined to allow myself to be diagnosed as suffering from an information compulsion, disorganised, variety obsessed, and a change addict, etc., but would to prefer to leave my brain free of drugs that will force it to process information like most other people do even if it might improve my memory – and there are days I feel like I need that - like when I am looking for my keys that are in my hand..    

That said, I am somewhat inclined to consider seriously the diagnosis of ‘ADHD’.  I think it’s dangerous to put children into a box that will enable them to reason away internally whatever weaknesses they may have and maybe even force them to change the way their brain processes information.  PS – one of my degrees (yes, complete... why are you asking) is in psychology.

My recommendation with the luxury of hindsight would be to consider making the environment as stable and predictable as possible for these children who have high levels of internal chaos.  And I would urge parents to seriously consider the implication of giving children learning medications.  I am not saying don’t do it, but urge you to look seriously at the matter and take into account possible alternatives.        

I was the kid who would be highly likely to be diagnosed with ADHD in today’s society.  A diagnosis that I was never given over even tested for.  Thankfully I grew up in a relatively structured and predictable environment; enough to give me some balance to my internal chaos.  And so despite of exhibiting many of the ADHD symptoms, I have come to the conclusion that the score of 41 should be ‘shoved’. 

What usage would it serve me aside from giving me a medical reason why ‘I can’t...?     

As a result, I am forced to live with a mind that whose internal jury system is able to hang itself and intent on a continual quest for new information.  A mind I often wish came with an off switch. (Ritalin perhaps?)  Note to self - consider for further exploration. 

I suppose it just might be one of those perils of being a change addict because nothing will change if we all think alike...

 

Sprinkled with Paranoia

I have been struggling a little bit with my car that past few weeks.  And while sometimes you wish car repairs are one of those things you could post-pone doing, they sort of have a way of ensuring they become urgent. 

It’s annoying really.  The damn thing just stops. 

So mine was on the verge of doing just that when I took it in for repairs.  The way I saw it was that either I put holes in the bottom and we could propel it Flintstone style, or I needed to find some mechanical assistance.  And after weighing my options, the pro’s and cons, i.e. no gym membership needed, less petrol costs, etc., I decided that mechanical assistance is probably best.       

Having taken in my car previously for a disk replacement, I took it to the same place, not sure if they do clutch replacement or not.  I drive in and roll down my window to ask. 

One of the sales people comes to my car and asks if he can help and in response to my query replies,

“No, we normally do not do clutch replacement, but ‘don’t worry, we can make a plan”.  (I can see that the motivation to ‘make a plan’ is clearly a result of this man liking what he sees.  God bless those who make hair dye, make-up, spanx and booster bras.  Heaven knows what I am going to do when my blessed age of 29 gradually creeps up).    

The statement ‘don’t worry’ is really an indication that there are things you should be worrying about but are being asked to make the deliberate choice not too.  And that alone, is usually reason enough to worry! 

The ‘making of a plan’ is infamous for just that.  It is as it sounds.  People organise, and make a plan.  And the plan is, aside from the paper with pictures of dead presidents, a paperless transaction.  

Experience has taught me that with car repairs, it really does not matter how business gets done, because someone is about to be screwed. It was my hope and prayer that it wasn’t going to be me this time.          

Not faced with an infinite amount of options (my car will not go far), I submit to ‘the plan’.   

A few hours later, after some price negotiation, which is now about 60% of the original quotation, they need cash to “purchase the parts”. 

Internal alarm bells sound.  ‘Oh, hell no.  My car and cash?  Sounds like a rat.’     

A request, to which I asked if they could not purchase the parts and I reimburse them? 

Besides, how far am I going to go if they have my car, out of the two of us, they were sitting with the balance of power.  An agreement to which they originally agreed and then reneged and I needed to come up with at least half, an amount to which they undertook to finance the balance.

I walk back to the workshop, cash in hand revisiting the process in my head and examining myself for errors of judgement and checking my internal stupidity barometer...  It is now 4pm and the car, is now laying in about four hundred pieces; a sight at which my stomach turned and an obvious indication that it is much too late to change my mind.  

Not having transport, the ‘garage’ arranges for a car for me.                

My ‘courtesy car’ is the first guy’s personal car, a 2004, royal blue Corsa lite.  Not a luxury car by any stretch of the imagination, but hey, a car is a car and they are sitting with my car, in 400 pieces, no paperwork and cash.  I need to have my head examined.  At least my having a car (albeit a poor trade off), is a small consolation that they are somewhat serious about fixing my car, so I tell myself.       

So I climb in and prepare to depart.  The car’s gear shift where the gear indicators had been rubbed off with time and so the first exercise was to establish exactly where reverse was.  Incidentally the car also brought to my attention that power steering is a luxury. 

After some effort I manage and pull myself into traffic.  I am acutely aware that I am putting on the windshield wipers instead of the signal lights when suddenly I am jerked backwards.  I am now driving from the back seat instead of the front; a position from which I am no longer able to reach the pedals thanks to the sudden collapse of the seatback.  In a state of heighten alertness (code for full on panic), I pull desperately on the steering wheel shifting myself forward enough to access the foot petals and slam on the brakes before the rapidly approaching red light.  My heart pounding, I manage to stop the car and attempt to get the seat back to return to its upright position. 

A whole lot of drama for a simple half a block of progress.      

Yes, I am missing my car even more now.  And an FYI, seatbelts are entirely useless when there is no seat back.        

All in all, I manage to arrive home safely with only two additional terrifying visits to the back seat; holding on desperately to hope established on the promise that the car would be fixed yet this evening.  

When it’s ready “we will call you”, they had promised.

But by six pm, I still had no telephone call and now I am beginning to wonder if I had not inadvertently purchased the petrol to take my car to Mozambique for a permanent holiday on the coast – which wouldn’t be so bad if I were in it...  assuming of course that ‘in it’ would imply at minimum, sitting comfortably in the driver’s seat and not tucked in the boot (trunk). 

Once again, I find myself revisiting my decision making processes for errors of judgement and decide that perhaps I need to drive back to the garage and check whether my car is still there (I mean – because after all I will be able to something about it if it isn’t-haha). 

So I climb back into my courtesy chariot and aside from the automated front to back seat transfer mechanism, I also do not have headlights that actually work and it is already dark outside.  I drive back to the garage... periodically flashed by oncoming traffic – the polite way of saying, “turn on your lights you moron” -  with only one trip to the back seat this time. 

I arrive at the garage to find that the building has been locked up.  The side gate is still open and one ‘back business’ is still busy, but not the one where my car is located.  The good news: my car is still there, albeit with no front tires.  It does however look as though it is in a few less pieces than my last visit, but it does not look like it has any intention of being returned to me yet this evening; a sight which causes some irritation.        

On my way again, I call and enquire whether my car will still be fixed yet today.  I will check and phone you back, he tells me. 

The phone remains silent. 

I still have no evidence that my car is there or had been there in the event that someone drives it away.  

‘I should have taken a picture’! I think to myself more irritated.        

I go back, this time with a friend, angry with myself for not thinking of taking a picture the first time around. 

It’s been about 30 minutes since I left.  It’s now closed.  Locked up tight.  I estimate the time gap and assume that my car must still be there. We travel around to the back and peak over the boundary fence. 

Yes it has reached the full height of madness , a security guard is walking over to check ‘what in hell we are doing’.  We ignore him.     

The car is there.  Its bonnet open and front tires still off; a sight which this time causes relief.       

I take a picture between the barbed wire attached to the top of the boundary fence as ‘evidence’ if needed, that my car really ‘was there’.  Just in case. 

That night, I put myself to bed and sink into an uneasy sleep. 

The next morning I wake up and arrive at the garage as soon as I am able, the complimentary Corsa keeping me in the front seat the whole way this time.        

And there she was.  My car.  All fixed up, in one piece and ready to go; running like new.    

I breathed a sigh of relief, said a prayer of thanks and paid the balance. 

For a change, it’s a happy ending, but I am well aware that it could have been otherwise. 

I cannot help but wonder if more happy endings such as this one would soon start to change our expectations and perceptions.  It may even significantly contribute towards a reduction in paranoia. 

But that, I suppose, is entirely up to us.

 

Garden Spooks and Change

Although I live in Africa and it is supposed to be warm – well that is the international stereotype of ‘Africa’ in any case, I need to put frost guard on my garden every year if I want to preserve my plants for the next growing season because at night we can get some serious frost. 

And so I pull out big white sheets of frost guard and cover the areas of the garden that have plants which cannot tolerate the cold.  And every year without fail, the dog, a little black schnauzer, reacts with a ferocious irritation at the changes to his garden. 

For the first week he attacks the covers and pulls them off.  He regularly gets himself tangled in his efforts to fight the new additions to the garden because they cover areas of ground he is accustomed to patrolling and he is unwilling to change his behaviour.  And then my frost guard gets a life of its own, while he jumps and scratches at it in an effort to find his way back out.  And if it wasn’t for the 9 meters of white frost guard trailing behind this little ghost of a dog, one would almost have to look twice at this garden spook.

And every evening I am forced to go out and put the frost guard back much to my own irritation.

Thus it would seem the nature of change requires chaos. 

A change in direction requires force and energy.

A change in thinking requires a paradigm shift.

A deliberate life change requires energy and intent.

Whatever the case, from somewhere, somehow, change requires different input(s).  

Sometimes change is easier when the inputs are from external sources and change is reactionary not deliberate.  It saves ourselves from the necessity of considering options and creating a shift for which by virtue of consequence, we will be held accountable for and, by virtue of the numerous variables in life, we may get the wrong outcome and regret in hindsight - in which case one could always seek to attempt to change it again.       

But deliberate change requires choice.  It is a calculated decision to destabilise our environment and create chaos with the intention of creating new outcomes; a plan to change one’s way of thinking and make a new behaviour choice; an internal input of something new into an old situation.  

And yet the first reaction to change seems to be fear.  A worry about what is not known.  An attachment (sometimes illogical and unexplainable) to what we know even if what we know is not working well for us. 

What I don’t seem to be willing to understand is the unwillingness of humanity to honestly ask whether one is satisfied with the status quo at present?

And if the answer is ‘no’, why not change it? 

Perhaps the change you fear is little more than a garden spook.