It’s a very bad day monkey-wise. My sister Ginny may be the only person other than my husband and my therapist who knows anything about the monkeys in my brain. That’s because Ginny has rabbits in hers.
I am nowhere near as crazy as the preceding sentences might lead one to believe, I just have ADD. And so does most of my family, although I am the only one who has been formally diagnosed. I don’t know if it is something you are born with or if it’s learned behavior, but either way none of us had much of a chance of developing any other way with our mom raising us. She has an energy level and attention span not unlike that of a squirrel on crack. I can’t really remember Mom sitting still, or checking our homework, or picking us up on time, or taking us shopping. Mom hates shopping. I always thought we didn’t have much money, or rather that there were so many of us that Dad’s salary didn’t go that far. Dad’s salary was fine, he was spending it elsewhere (nefariously, natch) and leading Mom to believe things were tight. I’m fairly certain the money could have been found, but Mom hated shopping and not doing it suited her fine, so poor-mouthing saved her from it.
I hate shopping, too. Apparently it’s a very common “symptom” (for lack of a better word) of ADD. I get overwhelmed really quickly, get frustrated and anxious and have to leave. Too much stimuli. I can’t sort it out and couldn’t find what I wanted if I tried. I literally feel like shaking my head sometimes when I leave a store and frequently do. The irrational thought being that I can move things back into place. I know I can’t, but as a coping mechanism it’s not bad.
But back to the monkeys. On really bad ADD days, I’m somewhat paralyzed, I just shut down. I can’t make myself work. On these days it feels like I’ve got chimps in my head jumping up and down doing that screechy thing they do. I kind of picture them banging on typewriters (but only because it’s a frequently used image in popular culture). Anyway, it’s hard to concentrate on much of anything, unless I fixate on it, like I have this blog. I should be figuring out dinner or straightening up or making sure Tallulah is doing her homework. But I can’t. And it sucks. There is a stupidly simple quote I need to draw up for a builder on some marble countertops. But I just can’t make myself do it. I will eventually get these things done later tonight, probably…I hope.
The only job I ever had where both I and the monkeys thrived was a page designer at the newspaper. It’s beautiful. You come in, they hand you pages, tell you what stories need to run, maybe give you some art, and set you loose. You’ve got 6 hours to get it all on the page and it has to be done, no exceptions–the pressmen are union and the paper can’t afford your procrastination or, and this is the beautiful part, perfection. Sure, people check your work and you fix any errors they can find, but mistakes, although not liked, are acknowledged as somewhat inevitable. When you finish, it’s over. Tomorrow is a clean slate and there is nothing to worry about needing to get done because it is all done. Ahh. Newspaper, fabulous job, horrible pay.
In the past, the monkeys made me fixate on writing purposely shitty poetry (although it could be argued that most poetry is intolerably shitty and definitely masturbatory), or random thoughts in a different language so passers-by couldn’t read the idiocy floating from my brain onto the page. (So I guess this blog thing is a natural extension of both of those except that I’m not writing it in Cyrillic script and I am putting it out there for all to see.) The monkeys wear me out. When they’re done with their business, I am very relaxed, but unable really to form useful thoughts. Things that are routine get done (shower for Tallulah, make sure she brushes her teeth, and then a bedtime chapter). Take out contacts, brush teeth, watch Jon Stewart in bed and stay up halfway through Colbert hoping he does The Word, and then try very hard to fall asleep. If it strays from the routine, forget about it.
This is not much of an ending, but I’ve lost interest and the monkeys are sleeping so I can’t think of one more damn thing to say. Except this was fun, and self indulgent. Monkeys are a leit motif for me. And if you’re lucky, I might tell the story of Ruben the Spider Monkey next.
–Susan
Tags: attention deficit, monkeys
