As an undiagnosed autistic with ADHD, I’d ask myself variations of this question several times a day.
“Why can’t I just finish this project I’ve been working on and am almost finished with?”
“Why can’t I just do my laundry instead of sitting here doing nothing but feeling like a loser that can’t do their laundry?”
“Why can’t I just stop obsessively thinking about that one mistake I made at work that no one else thought was a big deal?”
I could go on and on, but you get the gist.
“Why can’t I just…?” was my predominant, burning-soul question. The struggles I found myself facing made no sense to me. I’m smart; gifted, as I was told when I was a child. I crave order. I love being responsible for things. In childhood, it was all so much easier. I never left things unfinished back then because leaving a project, assignment or chore unfinished hurt my brain. A strong work ethic, my mother called it, or more properly identified as my overwhelming need to do the right thing, or do the thing right.
When I reached adolescence though, something changed in me. It seemed as if my brain had gained an obnoxious, younger sibling that was irresponsible, overly dramatic, hated rules and structure and loved whimsy, if not straight up chaos. These brain-siblings did not get along at all, yet they were forced to share a room, or a head… This analogy could get weird, but let’s see where it goes.
Thus began my era of constant inner strife. Nearly 40 years of brain-siblings fighting in my head with me crying, “why can’t I just…?” into the void finally ended with my diagnosis at the age of 52. When people ask me why I bothered going for an evaluation in my 50’s, the assumption they have is I was just seeking a label, which seems inessential and indulgent to them. I needed a label because it was essential for me to know the answer, finally, to “why can’t I just…?”
The question no longer occurs to me, or at least not in that context anymore. Understanding the “why” made it possible for me to make adjustments so I could figure out the tools or accommodations I needed to get things done. In my case, the right medication also helped a ton by subduing that chaotic brain-sibling’s antics so I felt like I only had one brain again.
I could lament that all this peace of mind came so late in my life, but honestly, I’m done being frustrated over things in the past that I have no control over. It’s time to heal and set up a proactive plan for self-care to protect myself, moving forward. After everything, I deserve this.
I’ve chosen to reframe my past so I can just appreciate where I am now. The resilience and ingenuity that I needed to get through life were hard-won and I see them as something to be proud of instead of angry about. I did allow myself time to mourn, but I’m careful not to dwell on it. I’ve lost enough time already and shouting questions into the void isn’t part of my self-care plan.
OK, a note of confession to wrap this up – I actually do still shout into the void, “Why can’t I just…?” but now it’s only about my aging body and the cognitive fog of perimenopause. The difference with this is I totally know the reason why, but feel like yelling in frustration anyhow. I’m also not finding myself quite-so-ready to reframe and celebrate any of this hell. I mean, how is this fair? But that’s a story for another post.