“The day you call your birthday is really a day to remember your continuation.”
Thich Nhat Hanh
I turn 31 this weekend.
But in some ways, I’m back to where I was 12 years ago, when I started my final year of high school - poring over Freudian theory, the biology of the brain, grand theories of personality, et cetera.
I did okay in psychology that year, but assumed that fulfilment would come from what I was best at.
At university entrance time, I chose to major in English and politics, where my school marks were strongest.
Last year, a friend told me that he rode through his 20s along the path of least resistance, and then came out the other side at a crossroads.
Joy was meant to come from the absence of failure, the absence of risk.
Joy was meant to come from a stable income, working 9 to 5 (thanks, Dolly), a car, maybe a house.
Joy was meant to come from things going according to the plan.
There’s a bit in the final Harry Potter film where the titular character finally suggests that, after seven years, his Type A sidekick Hermione ought to give up on planning.
“When have any of our plans ever actually worked? We plan, we get there, all hell breaks loose.”
He may as well be describing the twelve years since I left school, where most of the good stories have come from things going off-script - torrential rain on a glorious Parisian evening, for example.
Twelve years of fucking up and finding out. And more to come. Although I stuck a knife in the toaster this morning, a dumb way to die, even if it would be “on brand”.
Gone too soon, tried to use a butter knife to fish a crust of bread out from the bottom of the toaster because he still couldn’t slice bread properly. Died doing what he loved - being a chaotic bastard. Every cupboard door in the kitchen still open when they found him. Probably lucky to have made it that far.
Needless to say, I did not die.
I ate my toast, then took the Ritalin I’ve been on for two weeks.
From the moment my (excellent) psychologist and I chose to investigate ADHD, it took six months to get a diagnosis, and another three to get access to medication.
So, as well as working out what to do, the last few years have been about working out how my brain ought to do it.
The first thing I remember reading about mental health was the autobiography of English cricketer Marcus Trescothick, Coming Back To Me.
I’ve always loved the title - it’s not Time to Declare or another well-worn cricketing cliché, and it separates Trescothick from the anxiety and depression that prematurely ended his England career in the mid-2000s.
“It’s not me. It’s somebody totally different who takes over,” he told The Guardian in 2011.
When I was diagnosed with ADHD, I wondered if medication would reveal a calmer, less chaotic version of me, suddenly free from my own version of the “somebody totally different who takes over”.
While I waited for the prescription, I listened to a lot of Angie McMahon.
And when I grow up, I wanna be like a tree
And change with the seasons, helping people breathe
But all I've achieved lately is making it through
Just making it through.
The meds arrived. It’s early days, and I sometimes wonder if it’s all placebo.
It would be wrong to say the ADHD disappears entirely when I take them, but the signs seem good.
Instead of punching on every five seconds, the roos sit peacefully in the top paddock, hopping only when they need to.
Right now, the floor needs vacuuming, but it hasn’t stopped me from writing.
I don’t find myself wanting to eat every hour. In fact, I had to force myself to eat the second half of my sandwich at lunch.
All of the cupboard doors are shut.
I’ve written two pieces for this Substack in ten days of medication, compared to four in the previous six months.
I haven’t had the urge to throw grapes at my boss in important meetings at work.
This won’t be everyone’s experience. The meds are not some kind of silver bullet, but they are a useful tool.
Four years of therapy, dropping alcohol, exercising a lot, meditating, trying to cut screens after 8pm - these are all things that have made a difference, too.
I made it to 31 without the meds, so as much as I love Trescothick’s description of coming back to himself, of freeing his brain from his anxiety-riddled alter ego, I don’t think I want to banish my ADHD completely.
Sometimes, I like being a bit chaotic - having random bursts of energy, fixating on something (when I was five, I couldn’t walk through a carpark without stopping to examine every tow bar), doing a lot of work in a short space of time, jumping between hobbies, listening to songs on repeat, et cetera.
It’s just nice to be able to take a break, to wax and wane between chaos and calm, to feel these different forces within me, although the Buddha would argue there’s no separate me at all.
I’m still thinking about that.
For now, I’ve started studying psychology again, this time at university.
Concepts, ideas, names, and things I thought I’d forgotten have popped back up from the endless recesses of my long-term memory, which I can now reliably tell you is endless, because yes, I have done my homework.
Pavlov and his dogs, the food, the bell, salivation, the unconditioned stimulus, the conditioned response - it’s all still in there somewhere.
And so, over the last six weeks, I’ve finished the first unit - learning for learning’s sake, leaning into what I find difficult, instead of staying in my comfort zone to pursue high marks.
Nine units to go. Then an Advanced Graduate Diploma over 18 months.
And then a Master’s degree over two years.
Here for a long time.
And hopefully for some good times, too.
Author’s note - three very good ADHD resources
Matilda Boseley’s excellent book, The Year I Met My Brain (basically the Bible on the topic).
Jeff Warren and everything he does, including his excellent Substack called Home Base, his meditation on ADHD on the Happier app, and his episode of the Imperfects.
Search Engine & PJ Vogt’s double episode on ADHD meds (while you’re there, do yourself a favour and stay for the ridiculous episode about the Buckingham Palace pool).
Top work. I think I'll reach for compassion instead of the cupboard doors which have been left open. Again.
Lovely read, Jack - thank you for sharing.