Disordered

I sat down to write, as I do every day, and my first thoughts were about House Speaker Mike Johnson and what a smug little liar he is. Things that he knows are untrue spring out of him just as easy as can be without the slightest glitch in his holier-than-thou persona. And that got me thinking about smugness in general and how it is almost a prerequisite for a position in the Trump administration, but that is not where my pencil—wood, No.2, with “Good grammar is sexy” printed on it—took me. It took me somewhere apolitical. So, if you are looking for a political read, you might want to skip the rest of this and wait for the next one.

My wife said—not even in the middle of an argument—that I needed to see a psychiatrist. She thought I had PTSD, but I resisted her arm-chair diagnosis because ‘war veteran with PTSD’ was just so cliché, I thought. I would prefer war vet with a brain tumor, which has been done, but nearly so often, or war vet who was brainwashed in a secret assassin program, like Jason Bourne. Those diagnoses would also explain the headaches, though the assassin brainwashing would have to have occurred by age four, at the latest.

As resistant as I was to the idea that I should talk to a mental health professional, I did schedule a telehealth appointment because I am not the kind of husband who has to be badgered into acting on his wife’s suggestions, and also because a bit of dialogue from an old cartoon had begun playing over and over in my head as soon as my wife said “psychiatrist:”

     INTERIOR AMERICAN LIVING ROOM - SATURDAY MORNING

     TWO YOUNG BOYS sit on the floor watching a Road-Runner cartoon.
                               BOY 1
             When I grow up, I want to be
              a puh-sychiatrist.
                               BOY 2
              When I grow up, I want to be 
              a road runner. Beep, beep, zip--Bang!
                                BOY 1
              I think you need to see a 
              puh-sychiatrist

The appointment time arrived, and I explained to the nice young lady how my wife had overheard me berating myself from the point of view of the abusive drill sergeant in my head who liked to say, “Get your shit together, Hammer!” and then tell me how I was the most pathetic excuse for an adult human being he had ever seen and should probably just give up and move to a homeless shelter and sleep in the same clothes for the rest of my life. I further explained that this is how we got things done, though not until the very last minute, like that time when I wrote up an entire semester’s worth of analytical chemistry labs in the course of two straight all-nighters and the angry drill sergeant became too punch-drunk to even deal with me. The drill sergeant, I explained, caused my wife to think that I had PTSD, which, as we all knew, was very cliché.

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At the end of the appointment, the therapist (not a psychiatrist) said that she didn’t know about PTSD, but it might not be a bad idea to test me for ADHD at their office in Minot

The test was at 8 a.m. on my scheduled day off from my job as a freight rail conductor, so of course the railroad called me in for a twelve-hour shift that ended at 6 a.m., and I either failed the test miserably or totally aced it, depending on how you look at it. The doctor (a psychiatrist) who looked at the results said that fatigue may have been a small factor, but she was one hundred percent sure that I had ADHD-inattentive. I again resisted, pointing out that in addition to being an extraordinarily attentive husband, I had also been a military helicopter pilot, an airline pilot, and many other things that demanded close and sustained attention.

Then she asked me what percentage of the time in my personal life did I cause undue stress for myself and my loved ones by putting off a task until the last minute and then not being able to find something I needed to complete the task? She had a point there.

The bad news about my diagnosis is that ADHD is even more ubiquitous and unoriginal than war veterans with PTSD. All of the people on TikTok and half of them on other social media have ADHD. It is almost as trendy as gluten intolerance, which is the latest thing my wife thinks is wrong with me.

The good news about my ADHD diagnosis is that, like a brain tumor or assassin brainwashing, it explains or is at least associated with a history of frequent headaches. It also explains why none of my accomplishments, like graduating from the Naval Academy or earning my Naval Aviator wings, ever felt like a big deal or even very satisfying—except the writing ones, which was weird and should have told me something.

The first time I took my ADHD medicine, I purposely tested it by assigning myself a bunch of mundane tasks that would normally feel overwhelming and endless and impossible. I organized my closet and my filing cabinet and processed boxes of random papers and completed a bunch of to-do items while I waited to feel something. And then I felt the medicine wear off and tears welled in my eyes and that abusive drill sergeant was gone forever.

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I don’t take my ADHD medicine every day. Sometimes it is enough just to recognize and name what is going on and know that it is not because I am a lazy good-for-nothing. Sometimes, even in these politically crazy times, it is okay to write or read something that is not about politics. It is okay to take a break and be kind to yourself. And, if that’s not enough, it is even okay to see a puh-sychiatrist.