Setting the Scene:
Thanksgiving this year, we decided to share the above house on Miramar Beach in Florida with three families of longtime friends — my “Sister Wives.” (No, that’s not Photoshopped - on sunny days, it actually looked that vibrant.) Our kids have grown up together, but life and career commitments have gotten in the way. We’ve rarely spent quality time together this past year, though we live just 30 minutes apart.
Pre-Flight Night
I still had to pack because, naturally, I waited too long to do my vacation laundry. I went to bed at 11 p.m. knowing I had to awaken at 2:30 a.m. to shower and be ready for a 3:30 a.m. driver pickup. As I lay there trying to drift off, the voices in my head were having a loud argument:
Logic: “Why bother sleeping? Just stay up! What benefit are you getting from 3.5 hours of sleep?”
Feeling: “I read somewhere that sleep causes you to release chemicals that ‘wash’ the brain. I probably need that.”
Logic: “Check the time on your phone.”
I check the time. It’s 11:30 p.m.
Logic: “How much time do you have left for sleep?”
Feeling: “REALLY?!? Now you’re making me do math?!? You know I can’t do MATH!”
I lay there in the dark counting 30-minute increments with my fingers.
Feeling: “CRAP! Now I’m only getting three hours of sleep!”
I get optical migraines on less than 6 hours’ sleep. The headache is tolerable —nothing like a Covid headache — but they impair my vision. It’s like seeing through a prism of jagged pieces of flashing glass for about 30 minutes until it dissipates.
My heart starts pounding. My brain is playing out panic scenarios:
What if I have an optical migraine while I’m trying to walk through the airport?
My friend Melissa went blind once from her migraine while in a grocery store — what if that happens to me? Maybe she has different kinds of migraines?
What if I can’t see well enough with my migraine and the ends of my toes get caught in the escalator (this is one of my many irrational fears that has never actually happened to me or anyone I know except for that Itchy & Scratchy scene from The Simpsons).
I feel hot. I flip over to my other side to get more comfortable, adjust my 20 lb. weighted blanket and wait for Indy, my Balinese cat sleeping at my feet, to also readjust. Oh great. Now Indy’s “making biscuits” — that paw-kneading thing cats do to self-soothe. Add 10 minutes in the negative for my total sleep calculation.
I force myself to not look at my clock. But then I do. It’s midnight. I have 2.5 hours left to sleep. Indy is still. I finally drift off to sleep from sheer exhaustion. And in what feels like minutes passed, the bloody alarm rings.
Day #1 of Vacation
As we’re driving away in the limo, I realize it. In my mad scramble to grab everything I need and leave, I missed my key item:
“Oh #%!&, I forgot my neck pillow!”
I cannot sleep without my neck pillow. It has this nubby, flannel texture, not unlike my Winnie-the-Pooh teddy bear 🧸 I had as a child. This is one of my many self-soothe quirks.
And I’m already anxious about sleeping without my weighted blanket (I worried that packing that extra 20 lbs. would make my luggage expensively overweight).
My Son Jack Sighs: “Just buy another one at the airport.
New Neck Pillow from Airport - ADHD Tax: $25 💰
Day #3 of Vacation, Borrowing My Husband’s Phone Charger
Spouse: “What happened to your cube and charger cord?” The terse, aggravated tone is palpable.
Me: “I know I packed it. It must be here somewhere…” I’m frantically searching every pocket of my purse and carry-on backpack. I have a vague recollection of loaning it…maybe to my son? Or did I totally imagine that? Ugh! I can’t remember. I hate my brain. I hate that I cannot remember little things. Little details that seem meaningless at the time but matter later.
My Inner Voice: “Everyone hates me for being so stupidly careless. I hate me, too.”
New Cube and Phone Charger Ordered on Amazon - ADHD Tax: $25 + Tax 💰
Day #7 of Vacation, Homeward Bound
Me: “Where’s my neck pillow?
Spouse: “I must’ve packed it into the suitcase. Just go buy another. The gift shop’s right there.”
My Dopamine Level: Dangerously Low. “While I’m here, I might as well get a souvenir or two…or three…, and didn’t Jack say he needed some Carmex?”
1 Souvenir Hat, Tee, Tube of Carmex & Neck Pillow Later - ADHD Tax: $89.15 💰
Day #7 of Vacation, Atlanta Airport Layover
Me: “I lost my boarding pass.” I check every pocket. I know had it at the last airport. I cannot imagine how I possibly could have lost it. I’m so angry with myself, I feel tears forming. I’m mentally retracing my every move. (Yes, I know about the Delta Airlines app, thank you, but when I attempted the download I got that weird, unending cycling thing on my screen.)
My husband is clearly fed up with me. As am I with him. He failed to mention my son had reunited with his girlfriend after their volatile, 6-month breakup. He admits he’s already known for 24 hours. (This news could impact our impending move to Florida.) Now he’s literally yelling at me in Atlanta Airport and I’ve %&#$-ing had it. I’m yelling back, which is something I rarely do. I can feel people staring.
My last dollop of dopamine reserve is officially depleted. The effects of Vyvanse are long gone. And our flight doesn’t land until midnight. I know I have 4 hours of Zoom calls pitching national media the next day. I need to be on my A-game. They expect high energy.
My anxiety builds. Our flight lands and sits on the tarmac. W.T.A.F. There’s no open gate. The limo guy is texting me for status updates. We finally disembark at 1 a.m.
And then there’s baggage claim…
I grab the first piece of luggage. My son’s second piece of luggage is visible, but it’s stuck atop the platform, not dropping down. We wait. And we wait. And finally a union guy comes in. (Need a visual? Hit the 3:14 mark here. Comedian Sebastian Maniscalco mimics ORD workers best.)
Union guy in the orange vest clearly cannot fix the machine. But he does do some dramatically performative professional fiddling. I’m ready to lose my ever-lovin’ mind. Finally, he just climbs up and flicks the last 3 pieces of luggage off the platform. I desperately wanted to, but I balanced my impulsivity against wanting the TSA to let me fly in the future. It is now 2 a.m. We can leave. I should have been home and in bed one hour already.
We get home at 2:30 a.m. My husband chooses this moment to hold a family meeting, demanding we all sit down at the kitchen table so he can apologize to Jack and me for booking such crazy-assed time of day — but cheaper — flights. (Jack also has to work at 7:30 a.m.)
Now we’re all heading to bed — even later than planned.
The ADHD Tax Is a Pox Upon My Return Home:
In 2022, my mom died. I couldn’t find the keys to the safe deposit box she shared with me. I didn’t remember what was in it. When we finally drilled it open, it was the classic GERALDO RIVERA-AL CAPONE Vault moment—empty AF.
𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟐 𝐋𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐃𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐅𝐞𝐞 - ADHD TAX: $𝟏𝟓𝟎 💸
In 2022, I decided to keep the safe deposit box for my own important papers. But you know how it goes for ADHDers: Outta sight, outta mind. No papers were ever stored in said safe deposit box.
One year later, the bank mailed me a renewal notice. It was this very moment I remembered I even had a safe deposit box. I’d hidden the new keys somewhere so I’d never forget their location.
Did I say “never”?
So…this week, I’ll be starring in Groundhog’s Day: PNC Bank Edition.
2023 Lock-Drilling Fee - ADHD TAX: $𝟏𝟓𝟎 💸
Ladies and gents (and everything in between), the ADHD Tax is a very real thing. As is the frustration. And the self-flagellation. And the financial waste. Just know that the ADHDers in your life are harder on themselves than you will ever be, no matter how much you curse their forgetfulness, carelessness, or laundry washing / reheating-coffee-in-the-microwave trifectas.
But I hope you also celebrate 🎉 our gifts:
📌ADHDers’ calm in a crisis,
📌ADHDers’ disparate pattern detection, and
📌ADHDers’ abilities to out-problem-solve anyone out there.
In my next post I’ll share some of my ADHD parenting misadventures — the pros, the cons, and the backfiring good intentions.