I’m only 18. If you’ve read much of my blog, then you’ve heard me say that. I haven’t decided what I want to be when I grow up. You’ve heard me say that, too.
You’ve also heard me say that I’m 56 years old. And that’s true as well. And you’ve heard me say that I’ve been hard on my body and it really has started to take its toll on me.
The thing is, I have to live with these truths.
And I’ve said all this recently, so if you’re bored, I’m sorry.
The thing is, I have to live with these truths. Maybe you have a similar set of truths you’re living with.
We with ADHD are not ageless, in fact we are age-full, we have too many ages to deal with. Another paradox in the list of paradoxes that can be inventoried in our lives.
You’d think that would be good …
Like having a dozen more skills than other people, you’d think that being able to associate with many different ages would be a benefit. Not so much a skill, really, more of an advantage in our makeup. Like having long arms if your job was to change overhead light bulbs.
But, like our focus, which is always on but rarely on what it should be, what age we happen to be at any given moment isn’t necessarily the correct age for the situation we’re in.
Today, my father went in for surgery. He’s 82. I feel like I should be a 56 year old. I feel like I should be able to sit comfortably in a chair in his hospital room and be a successful mature man that he could be proud of.
But I’m feeling 18. I’m feeling like I should be able to discuss what I’ve been successfully doing all my life, but I’m still not sure what I want to do.
Or rather, I’m still not sure that what I do is good enough.
We live under the burden of assuming we are our parents legacy. That’s a heavy load to carry. We want to be successful for their sake. And whether or not we disappoint them, we disappoint ourselves so very often.
Where am I going?
I’m kind of getting to the point where I think he’s just happy I’m still alive. And I’m starting to see that he seems happy that I’m not in jail, not living on the street. Maybe I’m going right here.
The surgery was a success …
… but Cancer is no joke. I think when he comes around, I’m going to tell him I’m a success too. I’m going to tell him I write, which he knows, and I enjoy it, which I’ve never told him. I’m going to tell him I’m most likely always going to be broke, and most likely always going to be happy.
And I’m going to tell him he played a big part in that.
I’m going to remind him that I have ADHD, and point out that being content is something that I can call a success.
And then I’m going to say thanks.