A Story About Me And My ADHD-Ridden Writer’s Brain

this is actually a real thing i’m saying right here. it’s real.

seriously. i’m not poetic in this moment. i’m purely human. slightly confessional but telling myself to speak in text as verbally as possible.

i have always felt the need to explain myself. to anything. to everything. not because i believe that every living (and even non-living) creature or object necessarily deserves to know the reasons for my every move, thought, or processing of life but because i feel i deserve to. i talk a lot. i think even more. thoughts layer thoughts and neither of them know how they became conjoined twins and i do my best to say, i know i know it seems insane but all of me and the me’s inside me really always have been. a thought across the hall chuckles at the accuracy.

i’m getting too poetic. my apologies. well, who am i apologizing to? maybe another writer that decided to read this far because they understand the rambling i am blueprinting. or a stranger who finds my strange thoughts entertaining in a time of true boredom. who knows. well, you know. but, really, i don’t need to ever know anyone else’s reasons—but i refuse not to know mine.

in explaining mine, i become familiar with their birth. i remember their conception – usually it’s only a memory that lasts a split second and never happens again but, here i am, trying to remember whatever thought i can’t remember took over my brain for a small collection of moments in my life’s history.

what was i writing about? oh yes, how i am going to explain myself. i was explaining why i am going to explain myself.

well, i was going to but now i’m not because my hands are tired and my head is achy. my anxiety is calm but very alive. my spine has lost its willingness to straighten out and my feet are cold on hardwood floors. i need to wipe my eyes but maybe then my hands won’t reach for the keys again. then i won’t say say say what i’m saying i want to say.

i just want you to know, you who is anyone at all, that perhaps i am hoping to someday finish what i’m writing—finish explaining even one thought at all because i know then, i know for a fact, that will be when i can live fully and die just as fulfilled. i can say i did it i did it i did it—i said what i wanted and i meant what i said.

it will have to be later though cause now i’m starting to lose my head.