Relaunch: Please, tell me I have ADD!

"I am so scattered," I told my Life Coach during a recent appointment. "I can't seem to focus on anything."

I described to Coach a typical morning in my pathetically unfocused life. I start washing the dishes, then stop to write an important e-mail. In the middle of the e-mail, I remember I have to put the laundry in the dryer. After loading half of the damp clothes into the dryer, I recall the urgent phone call I need to make. Somebody left a voicemail, so I listen to that, hang up, and completely forget to make the call. I'm upstairs making the bed when I remember I never finished making that call, or putting the laundry in the dryer. Once downstairs, the sight of my computer reminds me that I've neglected this blog for way too long and need to write another installment. I sit down to write, and meanwhile, never finished the dishes, the email, or made that call, and my laundry is starting to smell funny so I will need to wash it all over again.

"Scattered," I repeated. "Can't get anything done. Driving myself crazy."

"Hmm," said Coach. "Is it possible that you could have ADD?"

Attention Deficit Disorder. Wow, did that ever ring true. I definitely have a deficit in the attention department. It was redeeming and somehow comforting to put a name and potential diagnosis to my dilemma. And, I realized, there are drugs for this. A pill to take, to make it better. The thought of being able to take a get-organized pill was incredibly compelling. So I went to a specialist, and I took a detailed written test, to determine the extent of my ADD.

I got a 96 on that test. The overachiever in me was proud. But the fact is, that number allegedly revealed that I am more scattered, unfocused and spacey than 96% of women my age. Only 4% are worse off than me. Yikes.

With this test in hand, I then went to see my primary care doctor, in the hopes that he would write me a prescription for that magic pill. Adderol, perhaps. Or Ritalin. Something to make my fuzzy brain think and plan more clearly. After a few weeks or so, surely I'd be able to finish my latest novel, master my complicated voice-over software, land that fabulous new job, and organize all my closets. I wanted that prescription, bad. And since I scored an A+ in ADD, how could he say no?

"No," he said, peering at me over his glasses. "I don't think you have ADD. I've been your doctor for ten years now, and I've never gotten that vibe from you." I showed him the test again, told him how unfocused and unproductive I've been lately, but he shook his head. I wanted to cry. If I didn't get a pill for ADD, how was I going to handle my attention deficit?

There was still hope, however. My doctor sent me off to a different specialist for an evaluation, a psychiatrist he trusted who also screens people for ADD. So off I went, and the first thing she did was give me another written test. Again, I aced it. Feeling vindicated, I waited for her to hand over the prescription and send me on my way.

Instead, she looked me over, and asked me some pointed questions. Did I have trouble focusing as a child in school, or have trouble graduating from college? Well, no. I mean, I was distracted from time to time, (what kid isn't?), but I did just fine. And when I got my masters degree a few years ago, I had no trouble fulfilling the requirements. In fact, I reveled in the whole experience.

Clearly, I had no history of ADD. And, the doctor pointed out, it's not something you "catch" one day out of the blue, like a virus. So she asked what was going on in my life. And I told her. About all the changes. About moving, and children leaving home, and job losses and personal losses and perceived failures big and small. And without meaning to, I started to cry. I cried through most of my explanation.

When I was finished, the psychiatrist nodded thoughtfully, and asked, "Tell me, could you be depressed?"

I stared at her through my tears, completely stunned. "No, I'm not depressed!" This set me off on a brand new crying jag.

"Feeling scattered and unfocused can be symptoms," she insisted. "Not everybody is immobilized and stays in bed all day when they're depressed. You can be fairly functional, and yet still suffer from depression."

Depression? This came as a shock. I have always seen myself as a cheerful person, someone who could take just about anything life throws at me, emote through it, and move on. Depression is something other people have to deal with. Not me.

Well, apparently, there are different manifestations of depression, and this is mine. It could be situational, brought on by too much change for me to handle all at once. It's possible that I will move beyond this unsettled phase in time, and all will be well.

In the meantime, I got my prescription. Not a magical get-organized pill, like I was hoping for, but a low level anti-depressant. It hasn't made me wildly productive, but it has eased a bit of the scattered turmoil in my soul. I cry less, find that my emotions are easier to navigate.

Another step in the right direction, I hope. A humbling one, at that.

- Callie