Consequence. Hmmm … now there’s a word not found in ADHD vocabulary.
Oh, sure, consequences happen. We just don’t think about ’em. Our rule is, “Do first. Consider later what could go wrong.”
I lied. “Do first.” Period. Why review what went wrong? If we’re not dead, whatever we did do couldn’t have been that bad. We live life the Indiana Jones way: “Trust me.”
(Throughout Director Steven Spielberg’s entire “Indy” series, those two little words – “Trust me” – are spoken during life-threatening events. Now we’ve learned to quote his phrase because, somehow, you believe what we say, even when we all know you should NOT trust us.)
Allow me to illustrate that lesson. I am an early riser. I do not know whether this is a quirk common to ADHD. I do know that the moment my eyes open – perhaps to satisfy thirst or pacify bladder – I fire up.
Why sleep away the day? Let the games begin!
Glancing at the clock’s 3:55am glow, I pop out of bed with energy levels roaring. (Why do I describe this? And to you, of all people! Silly me. This is the same routine for everybody, right?)
I’m out the door before my sleepy bride kisses my empty pillow. The world, its distant dawn, drama and danger beckoning, unfolds before my eyes.
I just can’t see it in the dark.
Walking at high speed, I hear the neighborhood’s gargantuan groundhog scurry beneath the steps leading to the baseball field. No doubt he’d been staring, puzzled by this happy human humming hot hits in the humidity.
(Alliteration, sighs a poetic screen. Gotta love it.)
Now all six screens – yes, the ones mentioned two columns back – speak up.
Finish the walk, then sneak up on the groundhog and spook him, coaxes one screen confidently.
Yes, surprise the socks off him! exclaims an excitable second.
A third critically chimes in, He doesn’t own any socks, silly.
So it goes throughout my four-mile walk. (Actually, 3.6 miles, but that’s too awkward.) Screens contribute nonstop opinions about oversized rodents (not to be confused with Rodents of Unusual Size) and the ache in aging bones until, at last, I’m back by the groundhog.
Angle down the baseball field’s side street, a crafty screen whispers, as if he could be heard outside my head. The rat-on-steroids won’t detect you until you’re right beside him. By then, it will be too late.
Hiding behind the refreshment stand, I smell buttered popcorn and grilled goods sold the night before. My stomach orders fries out loud and I freeze, thinking the growls will alert the intended target.
I peek around the corner. Dang! That rascally rodent’s on the run, weeds waving as unseen body weaves through them.
(Alliteration, poetic screen sighs again.)
Six screens hit hyperfocus. Their IMAX plays Jurassic Park II, where scientists on the remote island hope to escape hungry velociraptors by running through tall grasses. Moviegoers witness dinosaurs dashing in from darkness to dine on doomed dudes, weeds waving as unseen bodies weave through them.
Wait! Are the screens warning that I, like the scientists, am at risk here? Is my daredevil ADHD actually pulling me out of danger?
Threat dispelled, my feet sprint –
(No, actually, they don’t sprint. My feet cannot. They’re attached to the guy who got rebuilt after an awful accident in ’97. Nothing moves fast on me.)
Better try again.
Threat dispelled, my feet stride toward my four-legged mark. I think about taking the stairs, maybe two at a time. “Think” is as far as I get. One painful leg lift after another, I climb cement steps as though they lead to ancient, lofty Incan temple heights.
Yet I beat the victim to his hideaway beneath the steps. My two hands grab railings and I, in a single motion, vault –
Adjustment … please!
My 9.5 fingers (another awful accident … in ’79) fumbling against metal, I crash into railings, scramble atop them, drop three feet and land with a boom.
“Gotcha!” I shout, winded but unafraid of the …
Biggest. Skunk. Ever.
Postscript: Thanks for sending your great stories back at me. Feel free to sling more thoughts in “Comments” (at right) about my adventures and yours!