This Week: Sunday Blues?
On the power of diagnosis & the craziness of weekends.
Dear fam,
You know what’s weird? The way I can spend an entire Sunday praying for Monday to come already so my kids will go to school and I can finish a damn thought and then miss them all day Monday.
This family was on the struggle bus yesterday. Big Kid woke up buzzing with energy and sporting a preteen-esque spiky attitude (“Toddler is so uncool,” she said when her little sister sang Twinkle Twinkle”), and I woke up feeling as though I’d been hit by a truck. Partially, this was because we’d driven out to Connecticut and back to lead services the day before; the combination of all that driving and the emotional energy I expend when leading a community in prayer always wipes me out.
Toddler was her regular two-year-old self. So, adorable and demanding as all heck. My wife was likewise exhausted and low on patience.
By 10:00 a.m. we’d built three leprechaun traps and spilled roughly a million pounds of glitter on the playroom floor.
Big Kid was literally climbing the walls and hanging off the banister, so we quickly piled the kids into the car and headed to an indoor playground. We texted our neighbors, who were also being driven crazy by their kid, and they joined us. For two solid hours the kids ran, and climbed, and swung like little monkeys. Faces flushed and sweaty, they downed pizzas and juice boxes and we headed home hoping we’d gotten some of the energy out.
Alas, dear readers. Much energy was left.
The afternoon featured (in no particular order): bicycles, monkey bars, an obstacle course, and running around with friends in the local playground. Also, Bid Kid deciding to see what would happen if she unrolled the entire roll of toilet paper on the floor and dropping an open bottle of water in the car on purpose.
Do you think bedtime went smoothly because our kids were so tired? No it did not. The conventional math, whereby activities + kids = sleepiness is not a reliable equation. Sunday is hairwashing day for both girls, so there was a fair amount of wrangling and cajoling. Eventually, though, both girls were asleep and I was on the back porch with a glass of wine.
Phew.
Weekends are hard for all parents of young kids. For parents of ADHD-ers or other neurospicy kids, this struggle tends to be compounded. All kids have energy, yes, and all struggles are valid. But until you’ve sat with a child who is actually shaking because she has so much energy in her body, or who is screaming because of the dysregulation of it all, or who is doing something maddening because of her acute impulsivity — it’s hard to perceive quite how intense this can get.
For me, the hardest part is probably staying centered in my reaction to these experiences. When one is facing a pile of toilet paper on the floor, how does one not raise one’s voice? Asking for a friend.
Intellectually, I know she’s not doing it on purpose (unless she is, which is a different thing). And I don’t want her to develop the oh-so-common ADHD sense of shame about her quirky behavior. But sometimes the quirky behavior makes my wife and I quite crazy. We’re also people, with legitimate reactions and feelings.
I’ve written a fair amount here about my struggles with anger. Still, I think this topic warrants more examination, both because there are new subscribers here and because anger is such an interesting emotion. For folks raised as women, it’s societally unacceptable. For folks raised as men, it’s one of the only societally acceptable emotions. Regardless of gender, folks are very rarely taught how to metabolize or express anger in a safe and healthy way.
My quest to manage my temper is a core part of my personal mythology; some of my earliest memories are of being told to “control my temper” to no avail, and Big Kid inherited this red-hot short fuse from me. Together, we’re a volatile pair of humans.
I’ve been trying to control my temper since I can remember, but I’ve only really made strides since giving birth to Big Kid — and especially since getting diagnosed with ADHD.
Slowly, I’m more able to recognize the warning signs of an eruption so I can attend to them ahead of time. My wife and I have had extensive conversations about how to support one another — and how to support Big Kid — when we recognize someone is on the verge of boiling over. She knows if I say I need a minute she should give it to me; I know to say when I need a minute. I know to make sure I don’t get too hungry — that’s like the express route to a roaring volcano of rage. Deep breaths (inhale count to four, hold two, exhale count to six), going outside into the cold, locking the door and wearing an eye mask until my senses are calm — all of these are great strategies. I implement them all, and I help Big Kid implement them all when she’s melting down, too.
Wanna know what’s been a real game changer, though? Medication. Both mine and hers.
I’ve been trying to find an ADHD medication for a few years, and it’s been a challenge. To date, I’ve tried six different medications, each with it’s own awful side effects. One made me so manic I couldn’t stop doing jumping jacks, even though I was exhausted — I had to take an Ativan to get my hear to stop beating rapid-rapid-rapid. Another made my fingers shake so I couldn’t type — when I tried to go lie down I fell to the floor and couldn’t get up until my wife found me there and carried me to bed. Adderall worked pretty well for improving my focus, but it made me irritable and more sensory-sensitive. And besides, there’s an ongoing shortage.
I was pretty fed up with the whole thing when my psychiatrist suggested I try Concerta, a different stimulant that’s similar to Ritalin. And this one works. I can now sit down at my desk and, for example, write this newsletter without getting up twelve times. I can make my down my to-do list without getting lost. But most importantly, without a doubt, I know have a split-second buffer between anger and explosion.
That split-second is enough for me to lower my voice and refocus. It’s enough to change the entire trajectory of an interaction. Yesterday, when I saw the truly enormous pile of toilet paper, my instinct was to yell. Thanks to that split-second, though, I was able to ask, “Why did you do this?” in an only medium-loud voice. And when she said, “I don’t know,” I was able to believe her. After all, how often have I done things without knowing why?
Instead of yelling, I got down on my knees and helped her reroll the toilet paper, one piece at a time. I explained the consequences of these actions — instead of riding our bikes right now, we’re doing this boring thing. And now, instead of new toilet paper, we’re gong to have to use this paper when we got to the bathroom. And her friend has to wait for her, instead of playing.
We talked about how you have to try to think about consequences before acting. Of course, who knows if she’ll remember any of this? But there’s a heckuva bigger chance she learned something than there would have been had I just busted open. My anger, finally, could be channeled into a productive space.
Thank you, chemicals. Thank you, medicine. Thank you, diagnosis.
Last week, I was chatting with a pal who, like me, is one of the lost generation of neurodivergent girls. We get diagnosed in adulthood (if at all) and then start working our shit in a productive way — decades later than we could have. During our conversation, she spoke about how surprised she was to be so moved when the diagnostician affirmed her experiences. “I knew all of this already, why did it feel so good to have someone tell me it’s ok?” she asked in a voice note.
That’s exactly how I felt when I was diagnosed, and it’s exactly how I’ve felt every time I research another article about ADHD or read another book. Because every single time, it’s more evidence that no, I am not crazy or broken. It’s the world that’s built for a different kind of brain.
When shoes don’t fit, you don’t get angry at your feet or try to cut off your toes1 — you get a better pair of shoes. So many things about the world don’t fit for my brain. Instead of trying to alter parts of myself, I wish I’d known I could mold for myself a better fitting world. One where I can thrive.
Often, since I started taking Concerta, I think about the many boys in my grade who were taking Ritalin and similar medications. Y’all, there was so much Ritalin at the music and dance high school I attended — non-diagnosed kids were crumbling up the pills and snorting it through Capri Sun straws.
Would I have cried less tears of frustration when studying for tests if I’d had a prescription, like those boys? Maybe not. The past is the past, and we can never know these answers. But I’ll tell you something — I’m sure crying less now.
On Shabbat morning, when I stood before my community chanting the haftarah, I was able to focus completely on the words. It was a great story — Elijah the prophet betting all or nothing on whose God is real with the prophets of a deity know as Ba’al.
Later, during silent prayers, I thanked God for giving me moments of presence with my family and community. During the modim section of the amidah prayer, there’s a sentence that reads:
“We will give thanks to You and recount Your praise, for our lives which are committed into Your hand, and for our souls which are entrusted to You, and for Your miracles of every day with us, and for Your wonders and benefactions at all times— evening, morning and noon.”
I felt this deeply as I read it silently to myself. Truly, amid all the deep pain of the world, all the things we cannot change — there are wonders and gifts everywhere, always. I’m so grateful for each and every one.
Wishing you a shavua tov (a good week)! May we all have the presence to notice the gifts and the fortitude of spirit to fight against the powers that would diminish them.
Love always,
Mikhal
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