When You Finally See Yourself Clearly

I fell down the ADHD rabbit hole, and suddenly I'm not lost anymore.

I am back on my Monday morning Substack schedule! Finishing the first draft of my book—a book about retracing my steps that concluded right as I was finally diagnosed with ADHD—left me a bit bewildered, if I’m being honest. Understanding my neurodivergence and the role it played throughout the course of my life has become a lens that’s impossible to ignore; I’m walking a fine line between full-on embracing it by diving into the rabbit hole, and realizing that not everybody wants to keep hearing about it. My People Pleaser is like, “Well guys, it’s cool if you don’t have ADHD or you don’t really care about it, but think of it this way: Whatever “your thing” is, haven’t you ever had a moment where you learn something about yourself and it makes your head explode and you want to shout it from the rooftops and it’s like OH MY GOD EVERYTHING MAKES SENSE NOW! Just lean into that and humor me, kay?” Then my Irreverent Rebel is like, “To write for everyone is to write for no one, speak your truth, woman, and fucking quit it with the apologies and disclaimers!”

So, do with that what you will. In the meantime, another excerpt from my memoir as it pertains to this new filter of self-awareness.

***

Down the Rabbit Hole

When I was in elementary school, I became obsessed with Alice in Wonderland. It must have started when we watched the Disney classic, but then I devoured any age-appropriate adaptation of Lewis Carroll’s book over the years, developed an unusual fixation on the awful 1987 made for TV movie version, directed (and starred in, obviously) a cousin-created production to be performed for our parents, eventually read the original Carroll, and carried my obsession into adulthood. When my daughters and I found a gorgeously illustrated copy of Alice at my favorite bookstore, we read it out loud together—and Through the Looking Glass, too—during pandemic book club bedtimes. The Alice in Wonderland ride at Disneyland (the amazing one, not the teacups) is my version of Mecca, and I’ve accumulated Alice merch with fervor, including on my own body, inking the original Disney flowers next to a tower of teacups with my mouse-ear clad daughters sitting in the top cup. I love Alice in Wonderland. 

I had never really thought about the reason for my adoration, aside from the obvious nod to, “Well, that one’s destined to become a stoner someday!” vibes evoked by the hookah smoking Caterpillar and Technicolor hallucinations. On a particularly difficult day this past January, on the cusp of my ADHD diagnosis, I was sitting in my bed doing my evening ritual of journaling and meditation. I paused and took a sip from one of my many Alice in Wonderland mugs, this one featuring a garden and the classic, “Curiouser and curiouser” quote. And it struck me. Of course I was drawn to a story about a girl chasing something just out of reach, only to fall down a hole populated by an appealing collection of unrelated items, forget what she was actually doing, attempt to follow clues that kept disappearing, and throughout it all, remain fixated on her desperate quest to find her way home. 

It was a cliched “Paging Dr. Freud,” facepalm moment. I thought my proclivity for the OG fantasy novel had more to do with my childhood imagination and desire for oblivion by way of disappearing into a pretend world; the fact that it felt neurologically autobiographical had, not shockingly, escaped my awareness. 

I loved the mysterious scene in Tulgey Wood, where Alice delightedly finds a trail and begins to follow it in the hopes it will lead her home. Alas, the broom mustache/tail dog erases the path right in front of her eyes, and she sits down, despondent, to cry.

Not only did I delight in the story itself, I delighted in remembering the order in which Alice encountered characters in every iteration of its telling: The awful Dodo bird followed by Tweedle-dum and Dee, the Walrus and the Carpenter’s macabre tale of homicide, arriving at the home of the White Rabbit (who is clearly ADHD himself, amiright?), only to be mistaken for someone else, get distracted by a retrieval task and change size; the Cheshire Cat, the Mad Tea party. . . I prided myself on my memorization, always, and of course I recalled the precise order of events as Alice tried to find her way home. I retraced her steps for both of us. 

When my brother and I began to repeatedly view the 1987 live-action version via our VCR in Sioux City, Iowa, not only did I memorize the actors’ names and movie scenes, I memorized the sequence of commercials at every break, announcing them with the self-importance of the King of Hearts. Goddamn, I was an irritating child. 

I was always, always retracing my steps. It was my first unconsciously developed coping strategy for remembrance. My memory was such a paradox: spelling words and times tables, landmarks on the way to T-ball games, commercial break sequences, the zip code and phone number of every home, every first date, breakup, and anniversary burned into my brain, and yet. My ability to recall what I was doing and where I had been left me with no alternative but to leave myself elaborate clues and trails to follow. There was so much at stake if I didn't remember. 

After my Alice aha moment in January, I tossed and turned all night, waking up from a dream desperate to find a way back in. My dream-self tried to create a path to follow: Remember, there were two cages, one in each room. Remember, you were communicating with someone on a shared Google doc. Find your way back into the dream; what comes next? 

My dreams had been getting more and more convoluted as I got closer to finishing my manuscript. They would lead with my classic “music class anxiety dream,” the one where I am teaching a large group of wrongly aged individuals (teenagers, grandparents mixed in with the usual toddler crowd) and I can’t remember any of their names, where I left off in the Hello song, whose turn it was to play the drum. There are too many people, and I lost my superpower. Where is the roster? I can’t remember how to read it. Sometimes, I can’t remember how to make my feet move, how to walk, how to escape. I can’t remember, and I am stuck. 

I woke up one morning trying to take myself back through each step of a particularly epic, disturbing dream, as though I was coaxing a child to remember a story: After the too-big music class with the names you forgot, you left all your instruments behind. Then you went to the minivan where two homeless people were sitting inside, in blankets. There was an insurrection, and one of them was killed in the street with a number of other nameless casualties. What happened next?. . Oh, yes, I went to a beauty supply store where a man was yelling and I tried to make him be quiet. Boxes fell and he made such a mess and I knew it was going to be a disaster. Then we went to the museum, yes, that was what came next. We took a horse-drawn carriage and our cousin spilled wine obnoxiously, over and over, onto everyone.

My dream concluded with me sitting in an oversized rocking chair in the park, making a Facebook Live video and trying to remember the order in which my extraordinary Heroine’s Dream Journey had unfolded. 

I was exhausted just recounting it. As my need to retrace my steps in my waking hours faded, it seemed my subconscious mind had not yet gotten the memo. Clearly, there were decades’ worth of material that needed to be wrung out, tossed around, explained. 

If I wasn’t able to find a way back into sleep through one of the lucid dream clues I left myself, I instead remained wide awake, battling with my Inner Critic and Worrier who had teamed up to remind me that not only could I not remember my dreamscape, I had fucked up a number of real-life things. I had forgotten to schedule the coffee date, the dentist visit, I had double-booked my teenage daughter’s appointments.

During the days, I fielded emotionally triggering communications regarding my divorce, ran triage for my daughters’ physical and emotional needs, juggled work projects, scheduled appointments, and tried to remember why I walked into the kitchen. And so at night, I opened the gates to whatever work still needed to be done, delegated it to my subconscious mind, and then tried, like Alice, to find my way in, out, through, and back again. I would remember what it was I had forgotten. I would remember which way the rabbit went.

***

In the month since I wrote this, as medication quieted the landscape of my mind, calmed my racing thoughts, and made it possible for me to remember the series of tasks I need to complete, I’ve started to catch a glimpse of what it might feel like to be less at war with myself. To stop chasing elusive trails and plant my feet in my life, to catch myself living more in my body and less inside my busy mind.

Along with meds, I am learning how to work with the brain that I have, to set myself up for success, to catch myself in moments where things are working and to notice when I’m actively avoiding a task I don’t find interesting. I’ve begun to prevent overwhelm, or at least minimize it. And instead of taking for granted that everyone’s mind works the same way, I find myself getting—forgive me—curiouser and curiouser about my own thoughts, patterns, quirks, and daydreams.

The more I read, learn, listen, and observe, the more I really am beginning to appreciate my neurodivergent brain. As an adult with more wisdom and tools, I can offer myself compassion and flexibility in a way I couldn’t as a child who felt, like Alice, perpetually lost, confused, and forgetful. Now I see a girl with a huge imagination, boundless creativity, and so very many stories to tell.

XOXO,
Steph

Other fun things!

• I am SO excited to share that Zoe Rogers and I are producing the first ever Listen To Your Mother Boulder COMEDY night—an evening of motherhood themed stand-up comedy from the storytelling show you love. Tickets are available here—grab them now! I’ll be performing along with 8 other hilarious comics who happen to be moms. Join us Wednesday, April 3rd at 7 pm at the Dairy Center in Boulder!

• Can’t make it that night? We’re bringing you a Comedy Fempire performance on Friday, March 22nd in Boulder. Tickets here.

• Are you following the Mother Plus Podcast’s new series for moms who feel like they are failing motherhood through the lens of ADHD? Subscribe to the podcast, especially if you are one of the moms who, like us, feels like you are simultaneously too much and not enough.