Yawp of the Good Enough

My Cry of ADHD, Trauma, and Truth

Today was a good day. I got stuff done.

I made a dental appointment to address a cavity that's gone unfilled too long. Except I accidentally scheduled it for the same time as a colonoscopy consult, so I'm gonna have to follow up with someone or another about that tomorrow.

YAWP

I taught two classes and planned tomorrow's lessons, then I messaged my doctor about some cognitive and physical symptoms I’ve been trying to ignore. I exchanged messages with an HR manager, took a call from SNAP to advance my household application for food support, and sent a third round of documents to RAFT for energy and fuel assistance. Not sure how I'm back to needing support again, but hey, I've turned things around before.

Oh, and I conducted these operations from my basement with my little fan blowing on me because the air above ground-level was crushing my asthmatic lungs.

My "done" list may not be all that impressive, but if you’ve ever lived with ADHD, trauma, and chronic financial strain stacked like bricks on your chest, you know it’s not “a few tasks.” It’s climbing a mountain in mud with those damn bricks in tow.

You might wonder why on Earth I'm sharing all of this, so I'll tell you.

1. I'm a sharer. (I'm also a listener, so feel free to share back.)

2. To clarify some things about neurodivergence.

3. Because I know I'm not the only one.

I was born curious, loquacious, and brave.

I am me, and I'm weary of apologizing.

I’ve spent years - decades - trying to conform, to mask, to “norm.” I thought maybe if I adapted, made better decisions, figured out how to fit in, life would work better. Maybe the way to avoid making mistakes and missteps was to suppress my voice, my instincts, and my very wiring. Then maybe I could finally belong or at least catch a breath of peace.

But now - I think that was the mistake.

So yeah, I choose to share. I choose to write. I choose to do what comes naturally to me and lean into my awesome strengths instead of punishing myself for having so many weaknesses. I choose to stop apologizing for existing.

I choose me.

There's a difference between an explanation and an excuse.

Good people, kind people can get frustrated when I forget something or ask for more time or fall behind on tasks. God knows I don’t blame them. I frustrate me, too. But I also don’t know how to respond anymore to advice like “you need to pay attention” or “do better.” I work multiple jobs, I carry a full load, I raise my kids the best I can in this terrifying world, and I already do the personal work.

I know exactly what I need. Ongoing help with managing the minutia. But I've searched and searched for such assistance for years. And with each passing year the cognitive load accumulates, and I struggle a little bit more.

Telling me to “try harder” is like yelling at someone to swim while they’re already mid-stroke, barely keeping their chin above water. Telling me to "try something different" that just popped into your head ignores both my reality and the fact that I've already tried so many paths that aren't my path. It ignores my intelligence and experience. I'm neurodivergent, not dumb.

.

Aw thanks, big guy. But I've got this.

Why, when people express their limitations, are they told they're making excuses or looking for an out? Trust me, I have a history of hard work; I'm not too good for any honest endeavor. And I'm well aware that no one's going to ride in on horseback to save me. (Though it's fun to imagine Pedro Pascal cantering into my front lawn!)

This is me trying harder. This is me trying different. This is me trying - and you know what, I've survived this long. Frankly the only way I can keep going is by keeping shame off my back. I've worked hard to let shame go, and I cannot - will not - pick it up again.

I know I’m not the only one.

There are thousands - maybe millions - of Gen X women out there who were told we could “do it all” and then broke ourselves trying.

Women who survived deadbeat, narcissistic partners. Women who stayed in bad marriages too long because they were afraid of the repercussions. Women who finally left anyway, and the fallout resembled a new edition of Dante's Inferno. Women who now work every job they can find just to keep the lights on. Women with aging bodies, neurodivergent brains, foggy thinking, and aching hearts who still show up. Every. Damn. Day.

Women who were amazing. Who still are pretty damn great. But who are tired - in their bones and in their souls. Women who are not the same person they once were, thanks be to God.

I think it's both dumb and frustrating that any expression of pain is popularly classified as weakness, one-upmanship, or a plea for sympathy. We should be allowed to seek connection in our suffering. We are human beings.

And while I stand with my gender and generation, maybe you’re reading this and seeing yourself in my words, but for totally different reasons than mine. I see you, too, even though you try like hell to seem okay.

Why the hell aren’t we supposed to talk about real shit? Why is suffering in silence still seen as strength? Why do we have to disappear to keep everyone else comfortable? I’m here to write my truth because it's the truth. I'm here to document my experience without hiding in shame or guilt or politeness. You know why? Because I have learned that shame and guilt keep abusive systems humming. Nah, I'm not supporting that anymore.

I'm gonna normalize this dumpster fire.

I dare you to call me weak or ill. Say it. I dare you. I am sick sick sick of a person's sense of humanity being pathologized. Because people like us aren't broken, we are overburdened.

I just happen to have the skill of writing it down.

Also, I like being real. It feels right.

Yawp On

A “Yawp,” as the great American poet Walt Whitman called it, is the sound you release when silence would kill you.

This is my Yawp. It isn't my first and it won't be my last. You can call it dramatic or emotional or whatever else you say to put people in their little boxes. If so, that's on you, and this Yawp wasn't for judgy-judgersons anyway.

But for those who feel what I'm bellowing, I hope that if and when you need to release a primal shout of existence, you think of this post and know you're not alone.