We're good at problem solving, right?

Last week I told people I have ADHD. And by people, I mean pretty much everyone in my entire freaking life.

I was already ‘out’ at work. I found it easier to tell people in my professional network than I did my loved ones (yeah, on that, I feel a blog coming on…). At work, we have Employee Resource Groups – volunteers who come together to champion a particular cause they’re passionate about (Race & Ethnicity, LGBTQ+ and disability etc). In an attempt to channel my energies into something positive, I signed up to our disability ERG. (Wait, I’m ‘disabled’?!? That’s definitely for another blog.)

So, I joined a committee, spoke at a panel event, hosted a seminar – I was an advocate. Literally and metaphorically, I wore the T-shirt. It helped me connect with others in the neurodiverse universe, but without intruding into my real life.

At home? I’d told my wife, my sister and my brother-in-law, plus a couple of old school friends who weren’t in my everyday life. But for several months, I wasn’t sure that I was ready for the label. Not in my space. Where I’m supposed to feel comfortable just being myself.

So, for months, no-one else knew. Not my parents, my kids, my in-laws, my wider family, people in the village, the school run parents etc etc. But now they do. In one week, I went into overdrive – emails to relatives, posts on Facebook, Whatsapp. The rabbit was well and truly out of the hat. I ripped off the bandage.

Of course, of everyone I’ve told my kids are the best at adjusting. They’re entirely non-plussed. Our education systems are such now that they have friends with all kinds of diagnoses. I didn’t get much more than “Oh, okay. Can I have a snack?” I didn’t tell them everything. I told them I have ADHD. That sometimes that makes me feel a bit sad. But that I’ll be okay. It just takes a bit of getting used to. That’s all they need to know for now, possibly forever.

With the rest? There were text conversations, phone calls. For once, even I found myself talked out (a rarity as my hyperactivity is definitely verbal / mental, rather than physical!)

There was lots of sympathy. The understanding is somewhat lacking because, of course, most people still don’t really know what it is. They want to understand. They want to make the effort. They also want me to know that they don’t think I’m broken. That I don’t have to carry the guilt and shame. But will they ever understand just how deeply programmed all that is?

So, how do I feel now? Now pretty much everyone important in my life is aware of my dirty little secret. Something I’ve been carrying with me for as long as I can remember: that there’s something wrong with me. I’m different. I’m…less? That I’m not very good at being a human and I’ve got a piece of paper to prove it. Actually? I feel better. It’s not that it’s given me an excuse. It’s not a Get Out of Jail Free card. With my therapist, we often use the analogy of my issues being like a bit ball of wool that’s been carried around for years and gotten all knotted up. We work to not only undo the knots, but separate and understand each individual strand.

Airing my news has been like releasing the tension placed on each strand. Somehow, it’s relaxed the friction between those fibres. They don’t rub along with the negative energy with which they were once imbued.

A problem shared, eh?