Starting over again, you say? Shit. I could do this alllllllll day.

And by that, of course, I mean I’m forced to do this all metaphorical day if I ever want to actually, you know, accomplish anything.

Like, say, this blog.

SO!

HERE WE ARE!

And yes, beginning this blog (again) with the sole intent of actually keeping it going (again), only to have life lob a spectacular grenade half a dozen posts in is so fittingly ironic…what can I even say, really? Except, of course, that the past few months have pretty well sucked, as I’m sure they have for many of us for myriad reasons and in various and sundry ways. But I can also say that, while I still don’t have concrete answers as to what my meat sack is dramatically on about this time, I’m finally feeling significantly better as of the past few weeks.

Clearly, then, it was time to face the music composed by the latest public iteration of my fits and starts existence.

And that’s such a huge challenge for, well, for anyone, but especially for people with ADHD. Because when life inevitably falls apart, instead of utterly stalling out, you can often at least partially rely on your routines and habits to drag you through one day and into the next, over and over until the winds finally shift a bit. But when you’re someone for whom routines and habits are notoriously difficult (at best) to establish, you rarely have enough sails aloft to keep your ship moving, however slowly, in at least a close approximation of the direction you were already heading.

Because let’s call it what it is–often it’s no sails.

In this analogy, ADHD is like the quirky, inefficient rowboat version of life.

Because for many people with ADHD, the part we actually excel at is creating new routines and habits, due to that whole shiny, exciting, dopamine-heavy creativity and optimism bit. We’ll spend hours and hours researching ideas and designs and examples and tools and supplies, and make charts and schedules and calculations and plans. We will obsess and hyperfocus on it for dayyyyyyyyyys. And once the framework for our new and improved life is absolutely PERFECT, and we’ve hoisted our fancy sails to begin our fresh new adventure, the one we’re certain will finally bring us to the success and happiness we’re absolutely certain are just over the horizon…

We suddenly remember that sailing is fucking hard. But maybe even more than that, we remember that doing the same thing over and over and over again, day after day, on and on in pursuit of your goal is fucking BORING.

So we shrug–and drop anchor instead.

Meaning that’s all we’ve got when the inevitable storm hits–our vast collection of anchors. And while you might think that would actually make us quite secure, it doesn’t. It just means our ship is violently yanked in every direction, the increasing tension threatening to tear the entire thing asunder and see the wretched debris sink slowly into the deep. And the only thing we seem capable of doing is hiding below decks, frantically plugging leaks or working the bilge pump or simply crying in the corner as we try to keep our heads above the fast rising water.

And if we survive the storm–which we always seem to–we poke our heads out of the hatch and are immediately blinded by the post-storm sunlight shining through the tattered remains of the sails we spent far too much time and far too much money on, the very ones we only now realize were ultimately so complicated, they were probably bound to fail, regardless of the weather.

At this point we have two choices.

We can fish out the oars floating somewhere belowdeck and proceed to use our ship as a rowboat, like usual.

Or, we can climb out on deck and at least fashion some kind of rudimentary, will-technically-work-however-caveats kind of sails. Or maybe we attempt the same style but with a massive redesign (or…no redesign and instead just lean into our tried and true powers of selective amnesia, oft-misplaced-yet-difficult-to-dim-for-good optimism, and blatant denial of reality). Or maybe we just toss up some old sheets and call it a day.

But the latter often feels like an impossible choice in the moment. Because, aside from the obvious factors making it the more challenging option, we also suddenly realize we’re surrounded by all the other ships we tend to sail with, and all their residents are now also standing on deck, having weathered the same or similar storms. Except their very practical, proven, seaworthy sails are all still intact, like they always seem to be after a storm, and all the people are either surreptitiously or blatantly staring at us and our battered ship and once ridiculous, now obliterated sails. And the weight of the perceived judgement in their eyes is more oppressive than the searing sun, because we know many of them were watching or listening to us plan and execute these bound-to-fail sails back at the docks, and we know, despite our own unbridled optimism, that they already knew the outcome, because…

Well.

Because these aren’t our first sails.

So the oars are really fucking attractive at this point, because we’re SUPER adept at using them and could so easily just put our heads down, pretend we don’t notice everyone staring at us, and quickly and quietly slip off to find some secluded cove in which to hide until we can manage to shove the self-loathing down far enough so we have room to even breathe, let alone begin contemplating attempting that whole sailing life thing again.

BUT NOT TODAY, SATAN.

Today, I choose to make new sails, dammit.

Or something like that.

Seriously, people, this analogy was completely unplanned. I realized I mentioned winds shifting in one sentence, and then sails aloft in the very next sentence, completely unrelated idioms in my mind at the time they emerged. Yet my brain registered the connection and was all, wait, wait, wait–we’re doing SAILING???

And so then it did sailing.

I just came along for the ride.

Er, sail.

Anyway, this is probably the equivalent of tossing some old sheets up and calling it a day (or night), but whatever. The point is that I’m here, I still intend to write ridiculous and potentially occasionally educational or otherwise useful things, and I’m extraordinarily delighted and honored that you’re still here, too.

Never give up! Never surrender!

On, Teb!

choppy arm thing