Nobody wants to think of themselves as being selfish. I mean, yeah, we all have our days when we just think "screw it, today is going to be all about me, and I am going to revel in this momentary selfishness." But normally, we try to have a somewhat better opinion of ourselves. Except when we don't. Which, as it turns out, is all the time.
ADHD comes with so many pitfalls, some obvious and some less so. We parade around trying to convince ourselves that it's great how our minds can work so much faster, how we can accomplish so much more than the neurotypical in less time, how our brains’ operating systems lends itself to a special kind of creativity. But really, we know that this mindset is just a cover for massive insecurity.
I keep saying "we," but I really mean "I." So yeah, I am ridiculously insecure. And I'm beginning to suspect that I don't cover it all that well after all.
And so, going back to the first line of this post, I don't want to think of myself as being selfish. But really, I know that I am. It's not something I like about myself, and maybe it's less of what I know and more of what I fear.
ADHD lends itself to behaviors that come across as exceptionally selfish, with a side of ignorant, inconsiderate, and disrespectful. Consider those four words: selfish, ignorant, inconsiderate, disrespectful. They’re a laundry list of synonyms that all add up to a total dickhead. No one wants to be around a person like that, much less be friends with her.
I’m chronically at least five minutes late. I interrupt other people constantly, either through uncontrollable fidgeting or by blurting out whatever thought has just crossed my mind and couldn't possibly wait to come out. As a result, I frequently hijack conversations, or at least derail other people's trains of thought. In order to focus on a serious discussion, I need to keep myself occupied in a way that makes it seem like I'm not paying attention at all, usually involving crocheting or computer games. When I’m engrossed in something, I don't take kindly to interruptions; I'm usually not mean about it, just absent-minded. I've had entire conversations while reading a book that I don't remember later. My mother used to think that I was completely ignoring her requests for me to do chores even though I said I would, but really it's that I had absolutely no recollection of ever having agreed to load the dishwasher.
Just reading over that paragraph makes me cringe. Because, damn, why the fuck do I have any friends, let alone the amazing ones I've been lucky enough to find? My family is stuck with me, but what does this say about my husband? I feel like I've just uncovered epic levels of heretofore unseen masochism.
Logically, or at least on a good day, I know that this isn't a complete picture of who I am. I'm smart, I'm funny, and despite all of those misbehaviors, I'm actually a very caring person, usually overly so. And the people that love me are very tolerant of my quirks, and even tend to find them endearing.
But it's still there, the little voice in my head—the one that sounds like a combination of various grade school teachers, friends-who-actually-weren’t, and every iteration of "I'm not mad, just disappointed,” that I've ever heard. Years of excellent therapy have turned down the volume of that voice, but nothing can ever mute it. And that voice murmurs its insistent chorus, reminding me every day of what a selfish bitch I truly am.
