It’s been a while since I’ve written anything, and I’ve been mostly absent from social media. I’m not sure I’d call it a mid-life crisis, but I’m definitely middle aged, unless I live to 120 years old. My crisis has presented itself as a recent late diagnosis of ADHD, rolled in with menopause, death in the family, buying a house, selling a house, adult children moving out, and me left in the middle of the chaos wondering who I am.
I’ve always been a bit quirky. I knew this as a child, when other kids thought my fascination and intense interest in strange and unusual subjects was ‘weird’. I never thought my quirkiness was diagnosable. I also never dreamed that some of the things I struggled with were actually more difficult for me. I assumed I wasn’t as adept as other people at managing my time, starting things, finishing things, recognising risk, remembering appointments, and other managerial and ‘adulting’ tasks.
I thought I was lazy, inefficient, dumb, and hopeless. I told myself this every time I got a phone call from the doctor, dentist, or hairdresser, asking if I was on my way…WAIT, WHAT? I have an appointment now? But it’s in my diary for an hours time, tomorrow, next week.
It wasn’t until both my kids were diagnosed with autism and both their psychologists suggested that ADHD might also be a consideration, that I began to question if neurodivergence was a genetic trait that had come from me. My kids have different dads, and I’m the only common denominator. When one of the psychs noted that ‘she’s amazingly good at masking…almost as good as you’, I was shocked. I had always acknowledged I had some autistic traits, but ADHD was never on my radar.
During my assessment with the psychiatrist, he asked what had prompted me to pursue a diagnosis. Apart from the possible genetic confirmation, it was mostly about my increasingly difficult to manage and failing coping mechanisms. I’d developed a number of routines and tricks that allowed me to operate in the world. Some were simple: lists, post-it notes, colour coding. Some were complex and required a lot of mental energy. The complexity increased when Stu and I moved in together and I was juggling everything for four kids, and then five with an exchange student.
This was when my anxiety levels began going through the roof. I was having random panic attacks. They were debilitating. I couldn’t drive on the freeway as I was terrified of merging. I’d go shopping and end up sitting in the car park at Chadstone, crying on the phone to my mum, while I waited for the Valium to kick in. I was a mess.
I asked my doctor if the explanation could be hormonal. I was mid-forties, my period was all over the place, and I was having hot flushes so badly at night that I’d lie on the bathroom tiles, naked in winter, to cool down. He told me I was too young and put me on the pill for contraception. The pill then masked the fact that I was, in fact, going through perimenopause for the next five years. When I came off the pill, at 50, I hit full on menopause like a brick wall.
I got myself a female doctor and worked with her and my psychologist on my anxiety. My ability to ‘keep up appearances’ and maintain organisation with coping mechanisms was changing, and my hormones were having an off-tap, no holes bared party in my brain. I ended up with a diagnosis, a prescription for Ritalin, and many moments in the last couple of months that I’ve stopped and wondered how the fuck I got here.
My go-to response to any kind of diagnosis is to read and understand. Knowledge is power. I have read a number of books. They’ve helped. But, digging deep into why this diagnosis has me questioning everything has been transformational. In acknowledging that the impulsivity, and lack of focus and innate executive functioning skills has shaped who I am, I’m beginning to peel away the layers of shame and self-scrutiny, and to stand up to that shitty critical inner voice, and tell her to shut the fuck up
I’m slowly venturing back into the world of social media, and can feel the familiar sense of inspiration as I sit and put words together. I’ve missed the sense of belonging and connection that comes with interacting with other writers and creatives on line and in-person. I’m excited to jump back in to my writing groups, author events, and library visits.
I’m ready to be Kylie again. Wife, mum, friend, daughter, writer, cook, plant lover, Japanophile, art lover, epicurean, forest walker, animal lover, bird watcher, photographer, citizen scientist. Me.
Links to recommended books on ADHD. The Year I Met My Brain by Matilda Boseley, Dirty Laundry by Richard Pink and Roxanne Emery, The ADHD Focus Friend by Grace Koala.
Kylie Eklund-Denman 