But maybe I can explain it so that it is understandable. Maybe.
Life is like an Adirondack Chair.
Now, I know what you’re thinking, those chairs are from the Adirondack mountains, and those mountains are in the States. Life, occurs everywhere.
True, but so do those chairs, they just have different names in other places. We call them Muskoka chairs here in Ontario Canada.
And they are exactly what life is like.
They look hard. They’re solid wood. They might even have a sliver or two waiting for you when you least expect it.
They’re heavy to move around, so it’s hard to change your perspective without a lot of effort but it’s often worth that effort if you’ll just put it in.
But more …
They’re are plastic versions of them, and when you look at those you can see that they’ve been made with compromises.
Their primary function has experienced sacrifices in order to make them easy to ship, able to stack so they take up less space in the warehouse (you thought that was for your convenience?), they are never quite as comfortable, and they will blow away in a good stiff breeze.
In short, plastic Adirondack chairs are like plastic lives, contrived for the benefit of others, cheaply done, and fake.
While those heavy wooden chairs look hard and may offer slivers on occasion, there is more benefits than just the fact that they won’t blow away.
When you sit on one, the first thing you feel is the hardness, but the other way to describe that is that they are solid, supporting, durable.
That’s the way life should be.
And then …
You discover that they are, in their solid hardness, conformed to fit the body.
There is support where you need it, ease where that’s important, and once you settle into it you feel like you could stay the course for a good long while.
That’s what a good life should be like, not soft and pampering, but comfortable like a job that you’re good at and a home you earned and a family that gets you and that you get.
And people with ADHD?
We want that too.
But our lives aren’t put together in quite the same way as the neuro-typical person’s life. Things are handed to us in a sort of a kit without instructions, or with too many instructions from people who don’t understand what tools we have at our disposal.
Life with ADHD is an Adirondack chair that’s in pieces, maybe in a damaged shipping box. And eventually, we’ll figure out how to put it together
… right about the time that winter comes along.