standing desks for the neurospicy gals

There's this thing that I have and that I am just very recently learning how to deal with; I am not sure how to explain what it does without going into details -which is just another example of why it is relevant to talk about this-. 

I'm constantly carrying around the urge to walk across the office, back and forth to gather around my thoughts; I also carry my need to clean the desk before sending an email, because I know it will unlock the ability -that had been hijacked early that morning after doom-scrolling for sixteen minutes while brushing my teeth- to complete any relevant task that's left in the to-do list, right before creating a brand new list of things that I have not yet accomplished, which will both make me feel better and worse.

This uncanny need to constantly try to do things but never complete them feels like the infinite whirlwind of images and colors broadcasted in the big screens of music festivals. It's a never-ending loophole of infinity. Yes. Redundant. But that's how it feels. Uncomfortable. Incorrect. Mistaken.

Whenever I try to put into words the different things that cross my mind as I find the many impediments that slow me down on a daily basis, a loud, ugly, and despicable voice takes over my listening and my brain and I stop screening anything that comes from the outside world, or the context of whatever it is that I am doing, and I suddenly get sucked into the cold environment of a voice that knows no limits when it comes to being not supportive, not nice, not easy, not understanding.

For the last couple of months, all I do is attempt to translate the messiness, the chaos, the noise, into a rhythmic list of commands and explanations that allow others to understand me, and my behavior, or even for myself, you know? I like rational and organized thoughts because I cannot project them commonly. They are not my every day. They are not what I create, what I do, what I think, because my brain likes different ways of doing stuff but that's not always the smartest, cleanest, fastest way to do/think/express/experience something. 

I don't always make sense, not even to myself. And I have walked through hell just to get here and complaint and whine about how difficult it is to be neurodivergent, and how out of touch I feel, and how often I expect others to be nicer to me because I am about to breakdown because the decision of cereal brands for breakfast broke my brain and I cannot think anymore. 

The only words I can usher since the diagnostic are all tied to the fact that I have ADHD. All of them. All of my words are talking about ADHD and how difficult it is to have ADHD and how misunderstood I feel because no one else has ADHD, or knows someone with ADHD. Loneliness hits different when you isolate yourself unknowingly, carelessly, because you've gotten so used to doing it that it seems unnatural not to do so. You ask me what I do to manage the unwavering desire to burn everything down to the ground and I show you my lacerated skin. 

And I go back over and over and over again to the starting point of realization when I tried to understand me better, and I ask myself what could've been made differently. What can I do to change the direction of my life? What can I do to be a better human being? What can be done in the name of goodness and wellness and fitness and holiness and all the "ness-es" in the world that were invented to make us feel better about ourselves?

I try not to fall in between the narratives that I've accepted as true, and nothing but true, and I attempt to remain open to changes and new beginnings and new opportunities and mindsets. But I am tired.

And at the end of the day, be it Tuesday -today-, Friday, or Sunday, my only great wish is to continue in silence, peacefully, quietly.

I write about the things I don't fully understand. And I don't understand what my goal in life is. And I am not sure I even want one. I don't really enjoy having everything planned out, but truly, I've been meaning to experience the wonders of accepting this fate, any fate, and making it into a big, fuzzy, wonderful and exciting thing. I write about what hurst, and about the things that bring me joy. I write because there are very few things in life that bring me the peace and quietness that writing brings to me, but at the same time, I feel at loss when I think of all the things that I am missing out while trying to find a sense or a purpose that everyone seems to have already figured out.

Goodness gracious. This is long. Someday, some kid studying for their Lit final will skim through these pages and think that I was manic while writing these lengthy texts. But I like the thought of having someone study my literature for their final. I am not even sure what the genre of my writing is, but someone does, and that someone is using my deliberately confusing and preposterous writing to exemplify the rise and fall of a literary agency, or something of that sort. I like that. Thank you. For reading, or skimming through for that matter.