It’s been a month since my last newsletter, which is fine I guess, since I said I’d write two or three a month and I have. But it’s not really about calculated scheduling decisions. I just totally forgot play was a thing. Again.
When I started this newsletter, I promised myself it would be something I only do because I like it and I’d write only when I sincerely wanted to. That’s the whole deal—it would be pretty lame to let writing a newsletter about the importance of play become obligatory and fraught with resistance. Not exactly walking the talk.
Mindfuckery is probably the best word for what takes over in the absence of play. Spoiler alert: most of the time I’m ranting nonstop about domesticity/boredom and obsessively searching for an elusive, rare physiological condition I must have and finding artful ways to give myself permission to drink too much, something is up with my mental health. In case I sound like this is some pattern I’ve been privy to for a long time, I figured it out last week.
I’ve left Orcas 3 times in the last 6 weeks, largely because leaving the rock has an excellent track record for getting me out of despondence. LA at the end of April was great—I drank too much, but didn’t overthink it, and had an all-around rejuvenating time. I went to shows and talked to strangers. Portland revealed some holes in my wellness, and by the end of May, the inability to manage daily life was out in the open. I hadn’t been getting any writing done, couldn’t organize my thoughts, my home, my days. Couldn’t really get out of bed. I flew to New York, taking advantage of a friend’s empty apartment. This, I told myself, was my chance to “get serious” and “really get things done.” Naturally, I spent most of the trip dancing between self-indulgence (rebellion) and self-punishment (shame).
New York represents play. It was the first place I visited during the lows of depression where I experienced feeling again, and I’ve continued to think of as a source of necessary electric shock therapy. Navigating the subway in New York is pretty much the opposite of island life.
So it’s noteworthy that when I went to New York this time, I still felt like staying inside all day. When I’m not doing well (and therefore not writing), my list of possible explanations goes on forever:
It’s not sunny enough
It’s too nice out
I can’t find my phone
The house is a mess
I think I have a fever
I can’t find my phone
It’s too quiet
Everyone’s talking at the same time
I can’t find my headphones
I need to be in a city
The loudest voice in any spinout says, “You have EVERYTHING and you’re still not happy!?” and it’s pretty successful in silencing me. I have a beautiful home with fresh air and light and an awesome kid and a partner who is a true friend. I have a rich community, loving friends near and far, such safety, all the trappings of a comfortable life and much more. It is an absolutely beautiful life, just not the one for me—not the only one.
I spent my last day in New York with my friend Jake. I’ve know Jake since we were kids, and in the past few years, our conversations about mental health and addiction and art and writing have meant a ton to me. He’s someone who can say, “You know those are classic addict behaviors?” and I don’t experience defensiveness (maybe just a little) or guilt, mostly just relief. Listening as I dissolved into tears for the second time, Jake said, “So much of what you’re describing just sounds like classic ADHD.”
When I finally started seriously seeking help with my depression, a similar thing happened: I was convinced I was just following a trend I’d seen among peers. Enough people around me had been diagnosed with depression, I was probably just jumping on board. I couldn’t possibly actually have depression, there’s famously a limited supply.
The idea I could have ADHD isn’t totally new. I take Wellbutrin as my antidepressant in part because it’s often prescribed off-label for ADHD. I even took adderral for 2 weeks in the summer of 2019, but then got 3 migraines in one week. Since that wasn’t sustainable, I dropped the whole idea.
I wrote the essay “Before I Had a Name For It” a couple years ago about being consumed by mindfuckery and the relief that came from someone naming it. I was talking about depression, but it’s a pretty universal concept. There’s power in learning something is called “sexual assault” or “racism” or “embezzlement” because it means, at the very least, that others are aware of it. Believing we’re not alone is a baseline requirement for any kind of hope.
Jake bought me the book ADHD 2.0 and I read the whole thing on the plane. Written by two psychiatrists who have ADHD, it’s a holistic and compassionate illustration of a disorder that I’ve only ever had a very basic understanding of (people who can’t focus, full stop).
There are so many compelling things in the book. Women frequently first get diagnosed after becoming parents, a life-altering event which puts them beyond their threshold of coping (starting medical school is also common). People with ADHD are comfortable in the unknown, see limitless possibilities where others see only limits, have trouble with basic executive function but are highly imaginative. They can also be deeply focused—in the right environment.
“ . . . we have a pronounced intolerance of boredom; boredom is our kryptonite. The second that we experience boredom—which you might think of as a lack of stimulation—we reflexively, instantaneously, automatically and without conscious thought seek stimulation. We don’t care what it is, we just have to address the mental emergency—the brain pain—that boredom sets off.”
Anything to shake up the monotony of repetitive daily domestic life. Let’s rearrange the furniture. Let’s drink more. Let’s get out of here. In this place, brimming with natural beauty, I can’t feel the electrical current of shared humanity pulsing in the air. It’s hard to find a larger sense of purpose. Some days, like the day before yesterday, I just don’t understand the point of being alive. To be clear, I’ve never had active thoughts of suicide, but I’m familiar with having little will to live. There’s no fuel left to run on.
It’s been years since I felt this way, and I’m determined to not let it grow. I’ve cleared most “shoulds” from my calendar, scrapped all the things that send me spinning. I’m using the legal pad again, writing detailed schedules that include times for exercise and shower and errands (it’s going medium-ok). I have an appointment with a psychiatrist in a couple weeks and I will, of course, be devastated if they insist I don’t have ADHD. It would explain and validate so much.
Those of us who have ADHD experience time differently from other people. This is really hard for most people to believe, which is why people are typically unsympathetic to our problem and ascribe it to lack of effort, a bad attitude, or pure obstinacy. . . . In our world, we recognize only two times: “now” and “not now,” We hear “We have to leave in half an hour” as “We don’t have to leave now.”
This makes me think of Jenny Odell again, but also resonates deeply. I don’t remember much about the brief time I took adderral in 2019 except the feeling of awe looking up from cleaning the bathroom to find that only 20 minutes had passed. The main source of shame in my life these days is the number of hours I spend wandering in circles. And since my recent attempts at taming this behavior have taken the form of not permitting myself to do anything I love until I “get stuff done,” I’ve ended up isolating myself. I’m a highly social person, think out loud, get a lot of energy from being around others. Sticking myself in a room until I finish my shit does not, it turns out, lead to me finishing my shit.
So, for now, only things that light me up. No shoulds. Also, one more quote from the book:
Shame is the most disabling learning disability.
***
Shifting gears: Orcas Island Lit Fest last weekend was incredible! It featured amazing-and-pretty-big-deal writers and musicians and podcasters and I was so inspired (I felt the humanity-current thing). Among the highlights for me were a reading by Jill McCabe Johnson, a panel and interview with Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah, and music from Haley Heynderickx.
Perhaps my favorite part was when podcaster and writer John Moe read a rejected McSweeney’s humor piece about bison. I didn’t love the writing—a few parts made me laugh aloud, but I also zoned out for much of it. What I adored was how much he loved what he’d written, chuckling to himself as he went. There are few things I love more than someone cracking themself up. It was pure play, especially delightful since Moe’s book and podcast (Depresh Mode) are all about depression and mental health generally.
It was particularly apropos because on my third day in New York, I finally said fuck it about writing an entire book or whatever I thought I was there to do and went to a coffee shop and wrote something to submit to McSweeney’s about writers that I found very funny. They’ve already graciously rejected it, so I’m sending it a few other places. If it doesn’t get accepted I’ll save it for a reading so everyone can experience how funny I think it is in real life.
This week, for your optional Play Assignment, a few choices:
Reach out to someone you love who struggles, and don’t get offended if they never get back to you.
Put down what you “should be” working on and make something absolutely silly. The assignment is really to make yourself laugh.
Make a collage that says SHAME IS THE MOST DISABLING LEARNING DISABILITY. Hang it on the fridge.
I love you + your beautiful brain.
Thanks for writing. And thanks for the assignment. I truly enjoy reading your experience, it hits me every time.