A post by Lisa Forsyth, guest voice inside Raven’s Brain.

My brain rarely cooperates with me because of lapses in my synapses.  Sometimes I hate my brain.  I don't understand it.  I want so much more than it provides.  I want what everyone else has.  I want to remember your name, someone I work with everyday, but it's gone.  I stare at your face, seeking  some visual cue to bring it back, but nothing.  I picture other people we have in common and events we attended together, hoping somewhere along the line I will hear someone else say your name, and then I'll remember.  I’ve been your manager for two years.  I know your name, I know it well, but I can’t remember your name.  I want to remember why I just walked into this room.  I needed something but I'm just standing here.  I try to trace my steps backward: I was sitting on the couch, got up to get this thing I can't remember, walked into this room where it was supposed to be, now what could it have been?  You wanted a drink of water you yell from the kitchen, knowing me better that I know myself.  I want to remember what I am looking for when I am looking for it.  I rifle through my bag looking for my car keys but someone walks past my office.  My attention moves to the footsteps.  I resume looking.  I look and I look and I look.  I come across the keys.  I keep looking.  I don't know what I am looking for.  I just know I am looking so I keep looking.  I want to make it through a day without spilling something on myself, walking into a wall that's always been there, or tripping over the same piece of furniture again and again.  I want to be able to prepare a meal without cutting or burning myself.  I want to be able to follow a movie with more than one plot twist.  I love movies.  They are one of my passions.  I want to discuss the movie I saw last night, but I don't remember anything about it, just that I saw it.  "Hey Lisa, remember the part when..."  No, actually, I don't.  I won't.  I can't.  I want so badly to remember what you just said, but it's gone.  I stare at your face, look into your eyes, anything, please just come back to me.  The harder I try to remember, the further away it gets.  What was I trying to remember again?  I slow the brain right down.  R.e.m.e.m.b.e.r.  R.e.m.e.m.b.e.r.  I slow it down so much, the word itself loses meaning.  R.e.m.e.m.b.e.r?  I know the word, but it doesn't make sense.  The context is gone.  It is reduced to a series of sounds that should but don't trigger something.  I don't remember what remember means.  I want the woman I love to feel treasured but I can't remember what we talked about soon after we stopped talking.  I want to be more attentive but I can't get outside my own head.  Her birthday comes and goes and I want so much to remember, and I do, but I can't remember at the right time.  I plan on getting something or doing something to make her feel special but I don't act on the plan.  I forget the plan.  I try to sleep at night and that's when I remember the plan.  OK, get up and write down a reminder.  I’ll forget I wrote a reminder.  I won't remember to look at the reminder.  If I find the reminder a day later, I won't have any idea what it was about.  In fact, I probably got distracted while writing it.  It probably says something like "go tomorrow" because my brain was done writing before my hand even started. Go where tomorrow?  Do what tomorrow?  I know I wrote the note for a reason and I want to remember what that reason was so I can understand what the note says, but the context is gone.  The note becomes words on paper the way words become sounds without meaning.

So what's my problem and why am I writing this?  I love to write and I resent my brain.  I am bright, creative, energetic, and successful.  I have a Master's Degree.  I have a job I love, a team I adore,  and a compassionate and understanding boss that supports me.  I have ADD.  I withdraw in group situations and can't sit still in meetings.  I make sudden movements I can't control.  I fidget and twitch.   I think everyone is watching me.  I drop my pen.  Bend down.  Pick it up.  Drop it again.  Over and over and over.  I am embarrassed every time it falls.  I pick it up and set it down so I don’t continue dropping it.  I tune out, the channels change.  I cannot attend to what is being said.  I pick up the pen.  I fidget.  I drop the pen.  I fear discovery.  If you knew I had ADD, you would question everything I did.  You would think I am an imposter and wonder what I am doing here.  So I hide.   I am tired of hiding.  I have much more to offer.  This is who I am.  And this is my bad brain.

What you won't find in my posts
Reading through my posts will not provide you with a diagnosis. You may identify with one, some, or all of problems listed above, but even that doesn’t mean you have ADD. The diagnosis is a tricky thing because each symptom could point to a different problem. After eighteen years and numerous misdiagnoses, I was labeled as ADD. Do I finally have the correct diagnosis?

What you will find in my posts
I'm not sure exactly what you will find here yet, but I do have some idea of how I would like it to develop.  It will include some self-analysis.  I want it to be positive, yet realistic.  You are perfect the way you are!  Ok sure, but I still hate my brain.  I want it to be helpful so I will share coping skills for ADD in the workplace.  I will post on a variety of other subjects as well.  There is much more to whom I am than just ADD, but ADD informs everything I do, including how I manage, what I struggle with most when managing projects and people, the organizational tools I find helpful, and the type of books I enjoy reading. You will find posts on these topics, and many more.   Above all, I want you to find me here. This is who I am.  And this is my bad brain.