Excited, nervous and a little disoriented, I was on my way to my first half-marathon but running a little late. I usually attend these events with my husband who normally handles the registration, ensures we’re compliant with all the rules, plans where to park and familiarizes himself with the route. He’s incredibly meticulous with that stuff…. And thank goodness for that! My friend Alicia talked me into registering for this run and I thought, “Why not?” It’ll be fun to train together and will hopefully keep me in shape.
I’m headed towards the race on the interstate, realizing I probably should have given myself more time to find parking and get to the starting line. Panic slowly creeps in. If Greg were with me, I wouldn’t have to worry about these annoying details. As I approach the racing grounds, I see policemen blocking intersections and guiding people along which gives me some relief. My friends text me to let me know where they’ve parked, and I frantically look for those locations. Unfortunately, they’re all full so I find my way to a parking garage nearby and grab the first open spot. With only a few minutes to spare, I grabbed my stuff and skedaddled.
As I made my way to the race, I desperately looked for people with numbers on their backs to make sure I was going the right way. I thought to myself for a moment, “I shouldn’t have a problem getting back here … seems pretty straight-forward.”
Unable to catch up with my friends, I was slightly relieved. Running at my own pace without the pressure of keeping up with someone or feeling like I was holding them back would have been misery. I had everything I needed to make my run as enjoyable as possible (sweat towel, energy chews, knee brace, earbuds, phone); I was ready. The run was brutal but all I wanted was to reach my goal and simply complete the run. Getting to that finish line was the only thing on my mind. I was thrilled to finally get there... and without injury! I was sore but happy.
I texted my friends to see how they were and what they were doing. Some were leaving and others staying to hang out. I walked around for a bit, but I was tired and wanted to go home. As I walked towards the general area I remembered parking, I realized that finding the car was not going to be as “straight-forward” as I had hoped. The surroundings did not look remotely familiar. Walking towards the vicinity of the start line to retrace my steps didn’t make anything look recognizable. The longer I walked, the more my body ached from soreness.
Out of water, I began to wander aimlessly. After finding a bench to sit and rest, I surveyed the park to see if there was anyone I could ask for help. As I imagined what I would even say to them, I immediately dismissed the idea. Why was I considering asking a stranger vs. my own friends? Embarrassment? Pride? Probably a little of both. I thought about the information they would need – like street names, landmarks and building colors…none of which I could recall. My inner critic convinced me it wasn’t worth the humiliation.
My friend Alicia was still enjoying post-race celebratory treats back at the race grounds with her husband. My friend Felicia had already left with her husband. So why did my husband let me come here all alone? I pouted about that for a moment. Staring at my phone, I tried to figure out what to do, who to call or text and then find the words to explain myself. “I can’t find my car” was all I could come up with but couldn’t bring myself to hit send in that moment. I remembered there were different types of dyslexia. Maybe describing how this situation related to my ADHD will demonstrate that I’m not a complete idiot. Trying to think of an easy, casual way to do this yielded no results; everything sounded like a lame excuse. “I need to write a blog about this”, I thought, taking a selfie to capture the moment.
The type of dyslexia at play in this situation was directional dyslexia, which is actually a symptom of ADHD. This term is used to describe the difficulty one has with visual-spatial skills like recognizing left from right, tying shoes, crocheting, or following directions (left on Jefferson St., right at the 7-Eleven, then left on Moss Pk_.).
Here are some ways, directional dyslexia graced me with its presence:
· Telling left from right (My left thumb was a pacifier that got me through some tough times during the single-digit years. Although I was disciplined and had to wear braces as a result, it was my ride-or-die. To this day the skin sore I developed, has served as my cheat sheet for identifying left from right.)
· Difficulty reading and playing piano music in my left hand vs. right
· More difficulty than other students with rhythms and timings as pieces got more complex in my piano training especially in the lower register
· Holding musical information in working memory; I would often go completely blank in the middle of a piece, and I’d lose track of where I was
· Extreme difficulty with doing simple math in my head; the whole “if you know music, math should be easy” concept was complete rubbish in my world
“Why can’t you just be normal?” The inner critic scolded me as I sat there feeling helpless. “How do you always seem to get yourself in these situations?” She can be brutal. The physical pain I felt coupled with the critic’s frustration slowly began to feed the growing lump in my throat. I briefly buried my face to hide the tear-flooded eyes that had spilled over. I’ve learned that the quicker you let the tears go, the faster the throat lump goes away. Once the critic finished her rant, I proceeded to put my big girl pants on. Swiftly brushing away the tears, I quoted my mantra; the words that always seem to activate me when I need to fix a problem, “Don’t be a victim.” (And yes, there is a story there.) I cannot tell you how many times those words have saved me from myself.
You may have heard, ADHDers tend to be good problem solvers especially during desperate times. I no longer needed my left thumb; I needed my other ride-or-die, Greg. After all, it was kind of his fault I was in this situation to begin with. He should have been there with me, supporting my first half-marathon. Feeling confident about my rationale, I texted him. Within seconds and without even questioning me, he replied, “Where are you? I need an address.” I sent my location and five minutes later, he was on his way. Problem solved… well, almost. We still had to find the car once he picked me up. But at least I could search while sitting vs. walking around in pain.
Although relieved to see his car approaching, my spirit wilted as I anticipated the questions he would ask. The same ones that prevented me from reaching out to my friends nearby. Immediately addressing the elephant in the car, I said, “You have lots of questions I’m sure, but all I know is I parked in a garage; that’s it. None of the ones I’ve been to, so far, look familiar.” No greeting, no “thanks for picking me up,” … just “here’s what I know, now help me.” I needed to minimize the inquisition as much as possible in that moment (an RSD defense mechanism). The more questions, the more worthless I will feel because I don’t have the answers.
Without missing a beat, “Look up all the parking garages in the area and we will just drive to them,” he responded. As we drove around, the inner critic came to have another go at me. “Greg comes to your rescue, and you still can’t find your car? Why do these things always happen to you? Why are you so dumb?” I felt smaller with each berate. Approaching the last garage with no midnight blue Hyundai Santa Fe in sight, the swollen lump and tears returned with renewed energy almost as if to rescue me. This time, behind tinted car windows, I didn’t hide. The floodgates opened, and I wept uncontrollably. Greg calmly placed his hand on my leg, and I gripped it like it was saving me from falling. “Everything’s going to be fine CJ. Don’t worry, we’re going to find it.” Cue more tears. Funny how the exact words you need to hear can generate more emotions.
We continued driving around and happened to see a parking garage painted in white, literally across the street from the park where I was sitting earlier... or was it? This one had not come up in my search. The surroundings began to look familiar as we slowly moved through the lot, and I regained my composure. “There it is,” I point with a sigh of relief, wiping my face. I mutter a sheepish “Thank you,” as I exit the car. “See you at home,” Greg says while checking the seat for anything I may have left behind.
For those who don’t know, forgetfulness is a symptom of inattentiveness, one of the 3 main types of ADHD. We lose things, forget things, and are easily distracted by… things. We could be doing something that our brain isn’t really focused on and as a result, we’re not fully processing our actions, sometimes causing us to forget they ever happened. I was focused on one thing: getting to the start line. My surroundings, where I was leaving my car, or what I needed to avoid a parking ticket (which, by the way, was neatly placed on my windshield), was all background noise. The other symptom at play here was RSD, hence the crying.
When Alicia heard about what happened after the race, she kindly scolded me for not calling her to help. Naturally, my attempts to explain why I didn’t were rebuked. I understand her dismay; I’d feel the same if the tables were turned. Unfortunately, when you’re in the moment, the fear of judgement is very real. Being reassured, however, does help.
Here’s what I learned from this experience:
· With better preparation and planning, I would not have had this issue…. Can you see me rolling my eyes? (By the way, for you non-ADHDers, stating the obvious lesson to your adult ADHD loved one is high on the DO NOT list for these situations. You may feel it’s necessary, just know that you’re guaranteed to receive an unfavorable response either audibly or inaudibly.)
· I need to invest in a driver (aka, my husband) or ride with a friend when attending these events.
· Stop listening to my inner critic; she’s a bully. This will always be a work in progress.
· Most of all, trust that my friends won’t judge me the way my inner critic will.
· Also, I could have just said, “Hey Siri, I parked my car.”
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