Mission Impossible
Navigating life with ADHD feels like starring in a video game where the main quest is to stay on task—but I keep getting sidetracked by endless side quests. I start with a simple goal, like grabbing my keys to head out, but suddenly I’m reorganizing my sock drawer, rearranging the linen closet, drafting a text to my aunt about a dream I had, and diving into a deep existential debate on Reddit about how pickle juice should be a staple in anyone’s house. My life becomes one long, poorly planned scavenger hunt, and I’m both the player and the clueless guide.
It’s exhausting and hilariously chaotic. I’d love to tell my friends about my day, but it mostly involves me disappearing into a weird, fragmented world of my own making. By the time I resurface, I’ve missed calls, texts, and, if I’m being honest, probably a few friendships.
Living with this kind of brain means I spend a lot of time in my head, feeling like I’m just one distraction away from total mayhem—and maybe a little too often, I feel like I’m failing at the most basic things. Like, how can other people make it through the day without reorganizing their whole kitchen because they couldn’t find a spoon? It’s hard not to feel insecure when everyone else seems to be on level 10, and I’m still trying to figure out level 2. Sometimes, it’s lonely out here, wandering around my own mental labyrinth, half-lost and half-laughing at myself.
Game Over in 3…2…1…
I’m out here, white-knuckling my way through social interactions, trying to weave through it like Los Angeles rush hour—one volume-lowered, almost-controlled turn at a time. Imagine me as the player in some high-stakes driving game, where every interaction is an obstacle course and each sentence is another turn I’m hoping won’t lead to a crash. The problem? My “brake” button is mysteriously missing, and my “volume” setting? Permanently stuck on max.
It’s like I’m stuck in a car that keeps drifting toward the guardrail, fully aware of the chaos unfolding but somehow unable to let off the gas. I see the wreck coming like it’s in slow motion, but I’m mashing every button trying to avoid it—and yet, here we are, my verbal Mario Kart slipping on yet another banana peel of my own making.
So, if you spot me barreling toward another conversational pile-up, just picture a driver gripping the wheel, eyes wide, hoping this time I’ll make the turn. Maybe give me a little signal—a honk, a wave, whatever you’ve got—to steer me back on track before I accidentally monologue my way off the road. Think of it like a friendly checkpoint reminder before I end up crashing through the conversational barrier, spinning out into yet another unintended solo performance.
Enter Player Two
For me, friendship is all about communication, but apparently, that’s like asking people to solve quantum physics these days. Since Bubby died, the few women I once considered my closest friends have drifted away from my life like the marine layer over Santa Monica on a late summer morning—one second they’re there, comforting, present, and then poof, they evaporate, leaving me squinting into the sunshine, wondering what the hell happened.
I kept hearing this line from another grieving mother, “Friends will become strangers, and strangers will become friends after your child dies…” and boy, has that one been on repeat in my mind. Since he died, I’ve found the most unlikely people by my side. Like, Jaden’s stepmom has been staying with me. Yep, you read that right. Let’s take a moment to soak in the weirdness of that one.
For the last 20 years, she had this mental image of me living some breezy, palm-tree-swaying California life, like I’m out here skipping along the beach, tossing pebbles into the Pacific, totally zen as my worries float away on the tide. She told me this, and I almost choked laughing. The reality? I’m hanging on by a thread, using emotional duct tape and caffeinated fumes to get through the day—one wrong turn or missing coffee cup away from a full-on meltdown. Turns out, she’s been navigating her own chaos too, putting on the same “I’m totally fine” show with a smile that could crack at any second.
It’s wild how you can think someone else has it all figured out, only to find out they’re also winging it, surviving on the same shaky blend of optimism and chaos. Honestly, it’s kind of comforting in a “welcome to the club” way, realizing that sometimes the people you picture out there, happily skipping rocks, are actually just as deep in it as you are—maybe they’re just a little better at pretending.
Boss Battle
To be honest, I didn’t even realize I was on these endless side quests! I thought everyone operated this way—jumping from task to task like a caffeinated squirrel—until I caught Jaden’s stepmom staring at me with a look that was equal parts awe and horror. I was knee-deep in tangent number five, recounting how I got sidetracked cleaning the garage and somehow ended up color-coding my spice rack. She looked at me like I’d just revealed a hidden superpower or, more accurately, a deeply unsettling personality glitch.
Then there’s the overthinking. Oh, the glorious brain spiral. I’ll realize I’ve interrupted someone for the eighth time in 10 minutes or catch the polite eye twitch on the poor soul I’ve been talking at (not with, at) for a solid 30 minutes. And BAM! I’m suddenly in the boss battle of self-loathing, complete with bonus rounds. But here’s the thing—no one wants to tell the grieving mom to zip it. I’ve become this untouchable grief unicorn. People just stand there, nodding along like, “Uh-huh, sure, tell me more about how you can taste colors,” because no one wants to be the person to say, “Hey, maybe let’s not monologue for 45 minutes about the systemic failure of discontinuing french fries at the hospital cafeteria.”
And that’s where things get… complicated. Because if I could just go about my chaos without realizing how absolutely too much I am, I’d probably save myself a lot of mental acrobatics. Instead, I live in this bizarre state of constant self-reflection, painfully aware of every quirk, every tangent, every eye twitch I cause. It’s like I’m simultaneously the hurricane and the weather reporter, watching the storm I’ve created while desperately trying to explain it to everyone who’s still standing around in the rain.
The thing is, I know this comes with an expiration date for most people. I can almost hear their inner monologue saying, “This is endearing… for now.” I see it in their faces, the same faces that used to look entertained by my spirals but now just look exhausted. Like they’re trying to stay polite while I launch into another deep dive about why pickle juice should really be a household staple.
The friends who stick around? Saints. Absolute legends. They’re the ones who manage to put up a “detour” sign mid-ramble, gently guiding me back to the original topic with the patience of a kindergarten teacher. These are the VIPs, the ones who see past the spirals and the rabbit holes and understand that somewhere beneath it all, I’m just a messy, overthinking human who’s doing her best to navigate grief and life with a brain that never stays in one place.
So, if you ever see me mid-monologue about how I rearranged my entire house based on the theory of feng shui I learned in a five-minute YouTube video, maybe just pat me on the back, remind me to breathe, and let me know that the world won’t end if I finish a thought. Because I might be a whirlwind, but I swear there’s a method to the madness—or at the very least, a lot of love for anyone brave enough to stick around and ride it out with me.
No Easter Eggs, No Warp Zones
And as nice as it would be to live in blissful oblivion—where I don’t realize I’m totally obnoxious and could just float through life in a happy bubble—well, that’s not in the cards for me. Nope, I’ve got the special curse of painful self-awareness. It’s like I’m a motivational speaker with a broken microphone, shouting half-finished sentences into the void, only to forget what I was saying halfway through and chase off after the next shiny idea that pops into my head.
Imagine a life with actual warp zones. One minute, I’d be spiraling through a monologue about the merits of color-coding my dad’s flannel shirts; the next, I’d pop out on the other side, smack in the middle of an important conversation, sounding profound and composed. But no—there’s no shortcut here, no hidden level where I get to skip the awkwardness and rambling. It’s just me, stuck in a loop of cringing at my own loud, chaotic reality while trying to keep my brain on task for five whole minutes.
Endgame: Power-Up and Rescue the Princess
So, if you’re still with me here—no guarantees; I probably wouldn’t be—let this be your official PSA: ADHD and grief are like pouring gasoline on a bonfire. The loss dialed my brain into overdrive, so now, even with meds, I’m on a journey from Point A to… well, to Points A through Z, with a layover in Tokyo and a detour to reorganize my entire pantry. At this very moment, I’m sitting here, pants-less, fully aware that I did have a plan for today—if only I could remember what it was.
At some point, I’ve gotta power up and save myself from, well, myself. But the thing is, I know I’d make a terrible princess. I’d probably get halfway down the rescue rope, get distracted by the sunset, and start rehashing an entire conversation from 2014. Plus, self-rescue is a full-time job. My brain is like an untrained golden retriever, bounding off after every shiny thing in sight, leaving me to try to wrangle it back on track. I’m basically a one-woman quest for focus in a world of distractions—and trust me, it’s like herding cats, only if the cats were on a sugar high.
But if I’ve learned anything, it’s this: life’s too short not to laugh at your own chaos. I mean, somebody has to, right? And if you’re young and reading this, hear me out—none of the little things matter as much as you think. If you’re lucky enough to have a friend who gets you, don’t waste years thinking they’re out there skipping rocks and living a charmed life. They’re probably just as messy, pants-less, and sidetracked as you are. Hold on to them. Life is way too short to miss out on the people who’d join you in this hilarious, unfiltered, chaotic endgame—whether or not they’re saving the princess or just trying to figure out why they’re holding a roll of toilet paper in the kitchen.
