A Deficit of Attention

It's an odd thing. Attention Deficit and Hyperactivity Disorder is invisible among adults, by and large — say the term and the immediate thought is of semi- or entirely- feral kids, tearing around supermarkets and being rude to teachers; of Ritalin and use of the kind of food additives that can dye kids sunset-orange. But adults do have it. It's like most pathological conditions, in that you can't eradicate it from your overall makeup so instead you have to learn to live with it or turn it to your advantage. As with lion-taming, you come to a mutual understanding — on the lions' part, that you're in charge and so long as they have your full attention they will do your bidding. On your part, it's that if you let your mind wander, the lions can go to town on you. So it is with ADHD, except that very lack of attention is the lion. Except it's more like a chimp.

People who know me will occasionally glimpse the chimp when I come out with a seeming non-sequitur that is actually not so to me; it's just that my mind has leapt forward several steps without bothering to signal to anyone else that this is the case. I have to actively tell my own thought-train to slow down pretty much constantly: having had fifty years' practice I'm quite good at it now and do so largely subconsciously (and it's part of the reason I like teaching, and writing, as both disciplines give me no choice but to explain every stage of what I'm doing or thinking at the same rate as my audience can assimilate it). When younger, my main coping strategy was self-medication with drink or drugs, but as with most people with the condition, I quickly became overly fond of each, and any positive benefits (i.e. slowing me down) quickly lapsed into making me wired rather too much of the time: chimps know what they like, and they always want more. And the less control I have, the more the chimp has.

But, for the most part, the chimp behaves itself provided that I do. The only time he gets to leap about is when my mind becomes distracted, especially by stress, which doesn't happen very often but is hindered by my complete inability to recognise stress when it hits me. I just suddenly go into overdrive, unable to process or deal clearly with things, but it's usually very very brief, maybe 30 minutes before my mind wrestles itself back into control and proportion. However, that half-hour can prove drastically unpredictable or conversely hugely amusing for anyone within range. There's an internal dialogue that every now and then becomes an external monologue in which I attempt to make sense of my own thoughts and then reason my way out of the almost blue funk that the chimp can generate. For those who think I'm generally calm and unruffled, well, yes, I am, 95% of the time. The chimp, however, has a 5% investment in my serenity, and occasionally calls to remind me that I owe him a dividend.

By and large, though, the chimp and I happily rub along together (if that's the right phrase to use when discussing chimps...) meaning that the Attention Deficit part is pretty much covered. The main vestigial symptom, over which I have no control, is the hyperactivity. As a small child, I was one of those tearing about, slaloming down the aisles of the local supermarket (the lower floor of which is these days a soft-play area — maybe I was a harbinger), my mother by then immune to the portable cyclone she had brought into the world. But gradually as I traversed adolescence, that physical symptom became less overt, more subtle — instead of permanent St Vitus' Dance, it just stopped me sleeping. To this day this is the most noticeable and consistent aspect, the insomnia. The most I ever — ever – sleep is six hours, usually less, occasionally much less or not at all, which can seriously hinder my chimp-taming abilities. I have no problem going to sleep, though I have to succumb when it presents, otherwise the drowsiness vanishes and I have to wait for the carousel to come around again, which may only be at dawn. My sleeplessness is the waking kind: when I awake, I can't go back over. No matter what time it is, how dark or cold, once my eyes are open, that's it. So if I go to sleep at 9:30 in the evening (and if sleep beckons then I have to board its boat) I will be awake again at 3:00 AM. This isn't some call for sympathy; it's lifelong, and it's what I'm entirely used to, and I function perfectly well for the vast majority of the time. The only exceptions are when the chimp and sleeplessness ambush me together, or when I've had little sleep even by my own standards and stress is suddenly released — then I get a migraine. Which makes me need to sleep. And then I'll be awake again when it passes a few hours later and the chimp will be watching and waiting.

So if now and then I say something that seems out of place, or seem seriously tired, relax. It's just my chimp, sneakily reading from a few pages ahead of where we really are. And in truth I'd miss him if he wasn't there — he may be a monkey on my back, but he's also part of what makes me who I am, so if you know me you'd miss him too.