Musings on Selfishness

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.

Misfiring Mind

So here's the thing.

The fact that I was distracted from my thesis on Sunday morning was sort of funny. After all, I had until Monday to email it to my advisor.

And okay, maybe I didn't get anything done on it the rest of the day, but I had stuff to do. But since I only work until 12:30 on Mondays, I'd have plenty of time to bring together all of my research and reword all of my ideas to sound academic rather than the ramblings of a massively disordered mind.

Fast forward to Monday: I'm out of work and home by 1. I have every intention of powering my way through several hours' worth of writing, and am convinced that I can email a draft to my advisor by the evening.

Once again: Hey look, an internet.

By the time Jay gets home at 6 pm, I've accomplished absolutely nothing. I maintain my delusion that I'll be able to send my advisor SOMETHING. Monday doesn't end until midnight, right?

As of 12:30, I've spent about 10 solid hours on the computer, and poor Jay has been mostly ignored the entire night. I decamped to my bed around 11, convincing myself that if I was at least in the same room as Jay, I'd get something accomplished. I didn't.

Between 12:30 and 1:15 am, I managed to tap into my hyper-focus ability and write another two pages. I could've just emailed it to my advisor then, but no. I decided I'd wake up super-early and bang out another few pages before I sent it.

I failed at super-early, unsurprisingly. I dragged my ass out of bed around 9. I sent the draft at 10:19 am, having added another paragraph and a half. And I only managed that after I had a friend give me an emergency pep-talk.

I have absolutely no idea what I've done with the past 2 1/2 hours, but it wasn't my thesis. Somewhere in there I screwed around on Twitter for a bit and played a few games of mah jong. I think I managed about 20 minutes on the presentation I have to give at 4. And no, I'm not prepared for that either.

It's really hard not to be self-loathing at times like this. I'm supposed to be an adult, supposed to be able to get shit done without getting distracted by EVERYTHING.

It's now 11:46 and I still have to shower before getting to that 1:00 meeting. It's pretty much a foregone conclusion that I'll be late. Somehow, I don't think she'll be surprised.