Tag adderall

I am not a superhero

Angel Ackerman Leave a comment

I have been trying to write this blog entry since late Thursday– and I have failed to find the time. Each time I approach the task, I find I have a new take on what I want to say.

I have lost my footing.

Eva warned me it would happen. I don’t understand it, and I can’t articulate it well. The closest thing I can say is that I realize that had rigid systems in place to keep myself together, and now my atittude toward those systems is more fluid. That leads me to have a more flexible approach to those systems, making myself believe I can function without such structure, and my productivity falls apart. Or, perhaps another way to put it, the more I recognize the patterns and behaviors that drive me, the more I interrupt them. This makes me calmer, but eradicates my ability to get work done.

Or very simply: I work like I’m in the midst of a manic episode or I don’t work at all.

Yesterday I started realizing all of this, and I thought, “I am not a superhero.”

I don’t know if that makes sense to anyone else, but in that moment, I broke down and cried recognizing that all the jokes other people had made about my capacity to do all the things were true. That is was not normal to approach work with the urgency I did/do. That I performed at some ridiculously high frequencies, that weren’t healthy, and I don’t know if I can do it anymore.

My superpower has always been innate time sense, and I feel like fading away.

One of my dear friends sent me this email responding to a blog post from earlier this week, which I am quoting here for future reference in my own world:

I have no doubt that adderall works for you; there’s a different level of calm in you when you take it. It’s hard to describe from an observer’s point of view, and many might not see anything different, but in borrowing your own image of the filing cabinets, it’s like instead of all this frantic opening and slamming of filing cabinet drawers going on in your head, with some files just landing in the air or on the floor, instead there’s a different set of office workers calmly opening and closing drawers as they file thoughts and ideas away — productively and with a quiet focus, but still getting the job done faster and more efficiently. Not sure that makes sense, but I think those closest to you notice it.

This morning I received another email from a friend who works in the psychological field who, unbeknowst to me, has been reading the blog. She commended me for my willingness to embark on this journey on this potential disaster train.

To top off my adventures with potential undiagnosed ADHD, I reached out to an old friend about some emotions I’ve been having– yesterday was my 27th Wedding Anniversary after all and my estranged husband seems to have really found himself (I am truly happy for him)– and the old friend and I ended up in an argument which made me cry more, right after I got this email from Susquehanna Service Dogs:

Thank you so much for joining us for your Meet the Dogs session and also for your patience as we conducted additional evaluations. I’m sure this waiting period has not been easy.

After reviewing your session and our evaluations, we have determined that there is not a tentative match in the group of dogs that you met.

So friends, that means South and I did not match. I have to trust the process on this one. South was adorable and soft, and smart– which means that hopefully all the future dogs I meet will have the features of Ms. South, and that if I loved South, I will find the future matches even more of a fit. On a practical level, it’s a relief that the process has been delayed. The reality of taking a month off during the college semester, right before the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group Conference that I chair, and when Canyon, the cat who formerly lived under my bed, has made such progress… it’s a lot. I don’t think I realized how close to having a dog I was, and once I get that match I have four months to prepare financially. That means I will lose income, empty my savings account and add a member to the family with minimal time to prepare.

On a medical level, this disappoints me. I have been struggling lately and might be so bold as to say I have been in a period of decline. My neurologist put me in for physical therapy, and if I can get on their list before the end of the year, I will do it, but the reality is I can’t afford to do physical therapy once my deductible resets.

Today Eva and I went to the Nazareth Farmers Market to hear the delightful Larry Sceurman tell Halloween stories… Hopefully, that will be my tale for tomorrow. We also went to Barnes & Noble yesterday to look at the planners, and we each bought one. That should be an entry.

Over-firing

Angel Ackerman 3 Comments

I saw my neurologist/physiatrist yesterday. She’s a fabulous doctor and a dog lover. So at the end of my visit, I showed her the video of me working with South. She watched most of the video, paying attention to both of us.

She’s really excited and hopeful about the potential service dog placement.

She’s concerned about the recent changes in my movement and issues with my left leg and has recommended physical therapy, which I will do if I can do it before my deductible resets. I did, after all, hit my deductible for the second time this year.

She is okay with me taking up to 20 mg of baclofen 3-4 times a day. But she warned that experimenting with other medications for my mental health may impact my spasticity. Especially stimulants. I told her, anecdotally, the stimulants settle my brain enough that I don’t feel like I’m fighting my body all day. She expressed her doubt with a twist of her lips.

I understand the need for guidelines and best practices and the only value diagnoses often have is to put a label on something to render it necessary so insurance will pay for it. I am low on Vitamin D and have a history of anemia– I take iron fairly regularly so my ferritin is okay. My doctor followed-up with some vitamin B12 tests to make sure I don’t have an issue there– those were deemed medically unnecessary and I had to pay $500. As a small business owner who works several part-time jobs, that’s a significant amount of money to me.

There are so many things about trying to find relief for what bothers a person…And yes that sentence is deliberately ambiguous.

My daughter walked into the same office I am visiting today, at age 17, as one of her first visits to an adult family medicine practice. She asked for an ADHD diagnosis and medication and got a base dose of Adderall with no issue. Now, let me reiterate, that a true diagnoses of ADHD requires manifestation in childhood– and parent recollection counts. In my case, I have no such thing. My mother would probably shrug. My dad is dead. My biological father is also dead, and my mental health therapist thinks the ADHD comes from him. My grades were impeccable. I loved school. I talked a lot. ADHD was not a thing back then. I did not have a traditional doctor or routine medical care from around age 5 to 20.

My daughter, while her upbringing was much different, had an old school pediatrician who had patients my age. So emphasis on old. But he was good, and his office was about 400 steps from our house. That’s what I liked. We only had one car. Eva did, and still does, great in school. I would wager she has more intellect and capacity for greatness than I ever did– yeah, I’m implying that my kid is smarter than me and I think I’m pretty damn smart– but she’s got this streak in her… She calculates the end result she wants and the minimum effort it takes to get there. I am an all-in, competitive personality. She talks so much I don’t think she ever has a thought that doesn’t come out of her mouth. But, unlike my upbringing, which was a typical GenX “go outside and play” and adults did not really interact with children variety, I have encouraged her to speak her mind. I learned early on it was easier to hear her out and reason with her than enact arbitrary rules. She never stops moving, unless she’s asleep. And to get her to sleep as a baby, Darrell had to swaddle her so hard she couldn’t move or else her little limbs would slap herself awake.

But no one ever asked us if we thought she had ADHD.

Looking back, it makes a lot of sense. But when she was 17, no doctor really asked us. The school never said she might have it. Eva was a great student, and, while I was the traditional “teacher’s pet,” she became the kid who looked after the kids who had behavioral issues. The teacher would sit the disruptive kids next to her so she could help keep them in line. I wanted to impress the teacher, she wanted to help. Eva has always excelled at determining what has value to her and what doesn’t matter– the kid deleted all the invitations to high school and college honor societies– whereas I always reach for whatever achievements people tell me should be next.

But yet… we are the same.

I am 51 years and 5 months old. And about one month ago, I took a dose of Adderall that changed my perspective on the world so dramatically I get tears in my eyes right now typing this. THAT is what makes this journey exciting, frustrating and dangerous. If they offered me any drug that could make my brain do the things (or not do) like that… I would take it every day and probably pay a hefty price for it. It’s not about feeling “good,” it’s a chance to live my life without feeling constantly under threat.

And I’m so sick of doctors trying to say I’m depressed. I have close friends who have clinical depression, and a few peers with bipolar depression. I don’t see any of myself in that. I’ve said it before– I love everything about who I am and my life, and I recognize the good I do, what I have achieved, and (as my mental health therapist says) the value it what I have avoided. I have survived and thrived.

But sometimes, my brain tears me apart from inside my own head.

I carefully plot my time and my schedule to do the things I need and want to do. I choose commitments based on my personal values. But no matter how much I try to avoid it, I end up overscheduled, rushed and overwhelmed, and I happily but unwisely maintain an intense work schedule until my brain just stops (despite how much I love everything I do). I work, I work, and then one day I have no energy left and it feels like the soul has been sucked out of my body. No matter what I do my brain will not turn on.

I now believe, that’s BURN-OUT not depression.

And I do this over and over and over again. I have treated it like an emotion, like something inside me is wrong, and it’s just a different kind of tired. I never understood that until now.

At the arcade, when I was playing Mario Kart with the teens, I could play the game without tension, without feeling like my life was on the line, and I got a similar “rush” whether I won or lost. I enjoyed playing. I enjoyed trying. I enjoyed the camaraderie. I had never experienced that before.

There are a few special moments in my life when I experienced intense beauty, or better than usual sex, or a new level of emotion, when the world felt quiet and peaceful and warm, and I never realized until now that those instances of being truly in the moment don’t have to be that periodic. That…

Pause. 7:15 a.m. My alarm would have gone off now if I had slept more… and here I am now, crying. Typing this.

Yesterday, my daughter resumed her Adderall after the pharmacy did not have it in stock. Between her recent ear infection and the pharmacy issue, it had been about three weeks. So she split the pill with me. (Yes, this is a tangent, but bear with me. It’s pertinent, and this is the stuff that I will organize and edit when I write these things for real.) I experience some of those calm, beautiful moments throughout the day yesterday. Laughter with my friend, Nan, as we soaked in sun walking across the Staples parking lot, for example.

I went to work at the restaurant and learned I had a four-hour shift at the work center I like least and that hurts me most. No break. Just four hours of hell. I was very stressed about this before I clocked in. I even got a high heart rate notification from my watch. But I was also oddly resigned. Like we’d see how it goes. The first half an hour I was tense, but also steady. I said to the supervisor– the young one whose very energy increases my natural anxiety– “hey, I haven’t done a full shift in this work centers in six or seven months so I’m a little flustered.” And I communicated with her that I needed more supplies, and that I may need some help keeping ahead of what needed to be done.

Someone else asked if they could give me a hand– and we had had a special event that involved having children coming to get themselves ice cream at my station during the dinner rush– so perhaps that had me on edge, because I knew I had tp be on my best behavior and keep a tidy station… So I let them help, and this is someone who has energy closer to mine, though still he has the same frenetic tendencies the supervisor does, and it was fun. Because of the camaraderie. By the end of the night, I was having a good time by myself, and when I got behind, in the same way that often felt hopeless when I was unmedicated, I was able to listen to my rational brain and let go of the anxious thoughts. And I left my shift with good energy and minimal pain.

The emotional regulation piece of this is transformative.

I have always thought my brain was a hugely unreliable narrator. That I couldn’t trust it. I didn’t know when it was worthy of my trust. I now realize I have a highly logical and organized brain, but when it’s overfiring, and that’s the best way I can describe it, the thoughts fly faster than my poor little cells can file. Yes, I’m imagining neurons with little filing cabinets, and happy brain chemicals tossing balls of happy and calm around, and my poor little office workers being clumsy athletes.

This is where I would insert a shrug emoji if I were texting someone…

TO BE CONTINUED….

The Dave & Buster’s revelation

Angel Ackerman 1 Comment

My Sudafed is wearing off. These last two weeks of severe allergies have been exhausting and maddening as I drown in phlegm. I took my Zytrec, my Flonase and Sudafed this morning.

I learned at 9:15 a.m. that in order to make my 11 a.m. social commitment at Dave & Buster’s, I would need to accompany Eva to two clients and sit in the car from 9:45 to 10:45.

One thing about me: I can be really flexible, but once plans are made, I don’t handle change well. I am slow to recalibrate my thinking in the face of change. I had already threatened to back out of the social engagement, but now it was too late, and I would be a jerk if I had said I was going to be there and then not show. There were a limited amount of tickets, and someone else could have gone if I decided not to.

I love Dave & Buster’s, but I don’t do well in social environments. So the promise of some of my favorite arcade games– including a version of Hungry Hungry Hippos where you sit on the hippos and have to shovel the balls in their mouths– forced me to go. And more often than not, I force myself to social engagements despite social anxiety because I want people to know that I would like to support them or spend time with them.

And sometimes it can be fun.

At this point, Eva looks at me, and somehow we get to the idea that I could use a dose of Adderall. “You’d be doing me a favor,” she said. “I haven’t taken mine in more than a week, and I shouldn’t take a whole one for my first dose.”

So we split it.

By the time we got to the arcade (and I got to pet some dogs on the way), I was calm and not antsy about things. Eva came along to play some games with me, and I noticed they had removed my Hungry Hungry Hippos. I played some games, had some food, and even asked one of the teenagers to play Mario Kart.

Now, here’s the interesting part:

I struggle playing video games. My heart races and I get really anxious as if the games had real stakes. I’m really uptight about it. And Eva doesn’t like to play with me, because I’m too competitive and I get grumpy when I don’t.

Today, I played Mario Kart and enjoyed it, without stress, carrying no physical angst of the competition. I didn’t care if I lost, and even more shocking, I felt nothing when I won.

I felt no different whether I won or lost, either way it was just good fun.

It’s almost 5 p.m. now and my blood pressure is 110/69.

The ADHD rabbit hole

Angel Ackerman Leave a comment

My daughter, now in her senior year at Lafayette College as a psychology major, has been armchair diagnosing our friends and family since her early high school days when she would read the DSM-V for fun. It’s fascinating for me as a parent to hear my child talk academically about topics and use language outside my understanding. And I do enjoy it.

If you know me, or you’ve read this blog for any significant time, you may know that I have struggled with my mental health. I exhibit symptoms of anxiety and depression from time to time, love routine yet challenge rules, obsess over numbers and patterns, overschedule myself and never relax. And the funniest part of that– I have gotten better about these things.

Through casual observations, it seems obvious that ADHD runs in my husband’s family.

But my daughter continued to study people– and me– and one by one she made her diagnoses. “Your dad had a type,” she said to me once. “His wives were all narcissists.” Or she’d suggest a medication to a friend looking for relief. And I have never seen her be wrong.

She has recently declared that her father is “autistic as all shit,” (which my mental health therapist had suggested might be the case more than a decade ago) and that she thought that she “inherited her ADHD” from me.

I protested. “My executive function is fine.”

“Is it, Mom?”

Her words make me recall a conversation I had with a friend of mine before I left for Ireland in the spring. I don’t even remember details of what we said, but it was a business call, and I remember listening to this woman I respect and adore the creative work of, a woman who had ADHD, and thinking “that sounds a lot like me.”

At Eva’s urging, and her constant reminder that traditional medical research applies to 40-year-old white men, I looked at the symptoms. And when I google information, I always evaluate the source. I look for articles from medical centers, government agencies, professional organizations and publications like Psychology Today. (It may reduce everything to layman’s terms but it does have a responsibility to be accurate.)

These are symptoms of hyperactive impulsive ADHD in adult women that spoke to me:

  • racing thoughts
  • subtle fidgeting
  • excessive talking
  • overcommitting
  • burnout
  • rejection sensitivity
  • hiding internal struggles to appear calm and organized
  • burn out
  • signs of anxiety
  • signs of depression

Let those last couple sink in. Women with ADHD are commonly misdiagnosed and treated for anxiety and depression.

I wonder if I would be more restless and move more if I didn’t have spastic cerebral palsy that prevents my legs from doing things. The more I pay attention, the more I see how my daughter’s ADHD habits totally mimic my own. And I never noticed.

And I know people with ADHD often self-medicate with caffeine and sugar. I never experienced a cup of coffee calming my thoughts, but I do know I can drink a lot of caffeine with minimal reaction but I get a sugar high really easily.

I am also prone to hyperfixation. And taking on hobbies with gusto and then suddenly never doing them again. It’s like one of my existing hobbies will suddenly explode and become all I do and then, one day, I never wanted to do it again. When Eva was born, I made something like 18 scrapbooks in her first three years of life. Since she turned 4, I did not have a photograph printed. (I blame the iPhone. Not my brain.)

As a well-behaved patient should, I called my mental health therapist/psychologist to see if we can explore this idea. He will see me Thursday. And it might be wishful thinking, but he sounded like the concept might have triggered a “lightbulb” moment for him– because I know he has grappled to find “what I need.” His formal diagnosis has stated that I exhibit occasional symptons of generalized depression and anxiety.

Any good theory deserves an experiment. So, after a few online surveys, I took a trial dose of Adderall. I was terrified to do so. I have issues with high heart rate. I was fairly confident I would be very uncomfortable.

And then, in a conversation with my daughter about 20-30 minutes in, my brain felt soft. And then about 40 minutes in, my hands started tingling. All my fingertips felt weird.

“Mom?” my daughter said. “Is something happening? How do you feel?”

“My brain feels like goo,” I told her. “And something’s wrong with my hands.”

She took my hands and looked at them. “What’s wrong?”

“They’re tingly.”

“Mom,” she said. “They’re warm. That’s all. You have circulation. Your hands are not cold.”

My hands and feet are never warm. My body temperature is usually around 96 degrees. I had first-wave COVID, and my “fever” was a body temp of 99 degrees. And even on the hottest summer day, my hands are usually chilly when other people touch them.

And in that moment, I knew I had slowed down. It was like someone just took the energy that was “me” and turned down the flame a couple notches. I read my tarot cards; they felt it. I went to the grocery store and casually looked at the options and didn’t run from one aisle to the next. I wrote a Substack newsletter. Because I wanted a record to see if my writing had changed. (You can read that here.)

All the stuff I normally worried about and used all my energy to “do,” it didn’t feel urgent. I laughed easier. Moved slower.

I remember the day my daughter first took her ADHD medication. She was standing at the table in her grandparents’ kitchen, animatedly telling a story. As I listened, I realized that she had stopped vibrating.

I had stopped vibrating.

“It’s like your aura has changed,” my daughter said.

“I’m calm,” I replied.

“I never understood what you meant when you said that I ‘stopped vibrating,'” she said. “I get it now.”

I had stopped vibrating.

The thought that I really could stop vibrating made me want to cry– from relief, because of the new understanding, in fear that I would never feel this way again, hope that I could.

I slept like a baby that night. And the next few days I went back to being me. The me I know. My heart rate and blood pressure hadn’t been impacted.

We opted to do the next trial dose yesterday. I was meeting a good friend and wanted to see if she saw a difference. I was scheduled at the restaurant. I wanted to see how it felt in a different environment.

I took the medicine. Went to Panera for my writing date. I drank herbal tea to be safe. At 9 a.m. I caved. I had 12 ounces of coffee. And then about 6 more. It did not disrupt my zen. I did my writing. I was less talkative.

I came home, did more work on my personal project because I wanted to, and I didn’t fret about all the things I “should” do. I knew I would do the things I should, but I didn’t stress over doing them right now. Then, I watched TV for a while. And I didn’t feel guilty about it. My daughter came home from school and her 3:30 dog walk canceled so we didn’t have to rush out the door. I sat on the couch and chatted. I didn’t try to do more.

Now, the medicine should have worn off by the time I went to work at the restaurant. But I don’t think it did. I sat in the lobby watching everyone. It made me happy to sit and watch them. I thought they were moving slowly. That maybe the restaurant wasn’t the busy place I thought it was. I am often stressed by the fact that the kids I work with don’t think anything is urgent. Maybe they are right. My heart was not racing in anticipation of my shift.

I was not thinking about all the stressful things that could happen.

But as the medicine started to wear off, the restaurant got busier. But even as my heartrate and workload increased, I didn’t feel the “panic” I would normally feel. I didn’t feel the need to analyse and make a plan every two seconds. And then I thought of the perfect way to phrase it– because I got moved to a work center that stresses me out– even though the medicine was wearing off and I could feel the stress in my body, my brain and my behavior were not motivated by a sense of impending doom and disaster. I know that sounds dramatic, but every piece of stress I feel it my body feels like if I don’t keep up with the moment/the environment/the task, I will face a disaster.

Remember the television show LOST? There was a button on the island that someone had to push. I believe it was every twenty minutes. No one knew what the button did, but they all believed that if they didn’t push the button, something terrible would happen.

My brain is pushing that button all the time.

But on the show, I believe something bad did happen when they did not push the button.

And I feel like even when I did not have the full effect of the medication in play, my sense of doom dissipated. And that was amazing.

When I took this medication, I felt like I could relax. I have been wishing for decades that I could find a way to relax. I thought I needed a hobby, not amphetamines.

And today my daughter tells me that cerebral palsy is also lumped into the neurodivergant classification… More to think about.

**I cannot find much information on this, but my anecdotal experience on medication suggests that although it should not, my mobility and spasticity improves when I take Adderall. My experience feels like I no longer hold as much stress and tension in mu muscles. Which is why I wanted the small dose of Valium. Maybe I need the opposite?

Super blue moon mercury retrograde car repairs

Angel Ackerman 1 Comment

I bought my 2015 VW Jetta turbo in November of 2019. She had about 25,000 miles on her and I bought her for about $15,000 from my local Kia dealership.

She has been good to me– and even with my occasional road trips I only drive about 8,000 miles a year. And then my daughter’s car died, so for the last year she’s been more or less using my car full-time.

She’s put almost 20,000 miles on it. I used to take her in for service, an oil change and inspection every August and not think about her again until the next year. Not so now. Two oil changes this year. The kid blew one of my new tires hitting a curb.

Yesterday, I arrived at the garage at 8:15 a.m. for my 8:30 appointment. I had a large Panera iced coffee and a clif bar (brownie flavored) and brought one poetry book and my laptop intending to pound out a rough draft of my profiles of Milou Mackenzie and Miriam Sabih.

Which I did.

At 10:30 a.m., I received the video regarding the results from my inspection (all good) and the service coordinator came over to discuss which preventative maintenance would be best before Atlanta.

I knew going in my car needed a daytime running lamp and two new tires. We also opted for the complete tune-up since according to all my service records it had never had one and we now have more than 75,000 miles and I’m heading to Atlanta in two weeks.

When we get our next oil change, we’ll do the coolant and transmission fluid flushes.

At noon, the guy who supervises the actual technicians stopped by. They had replaced three of my four spark plugs. The last one was stuck. He said I could take the car home and return after my trip to finish the job. Great, I thought, I’m getting really hungry and would like to go home and have a real meal.

At 12:30, the service coordinator returned. He gave me a bottle of cold water. Which was great because all I had to drink so far was coffee. He wanted to get the car fixed before Atlanta, and preferably he didn’t want me driving it. So, after some looking at scheduling, they opted to keep the car with the promise to get it to me today or get me a loaner for Wednesday.

And they said they could have the shuttle take me home. The shuttle returned at 1 p.m. and disappeared before offering me a ride. Eva got down with her lunch clients and offered to come get me a little after 1:30 p.m. She arrives– and I kid you not– an old man with a walker lumbers up the ramp and takes up the door. After almost six hours in the room, I could not get out the door.

When we got home, the frazzled energies continued: my eggs were frozen, I burnt my toast, and the cat we are fostering tried to steal the bacon out of my sandwich (he did, but I wrestled it away from him) and then I sat down to watch TV and my Netflix account wouldn’t load, but Eva’s did. I watched hers.

And everyone kept talking about a blue supermoon and I was so confused because a blue moon is the second full moon in the month and it’s the middle of the month. Then Eva explained, “no, Mom, it’s literally blue.”

“Then they should say the blue-COLORED moon,” the editor in me replied.

The dealership called a little after three. There were two Ackermans in service that day. The person who handed me my paperwork gave me the wrong set. I almost signed for the wrong car!

I got my car back. Adjusted the seat because I have little legs and cringed at the fact that somebody put the country station on in my car. I drove over to Wawa for happy hour to treat myself to a cafe con leche because it’s been a long day. (Though I did do a draft of my Sex Down South slide show!) The young man doing the barista work burned my milk. Bought Eva some Mountain Dew because CVS has no Adderall.

And came home.