It seems that everywhere I look these days I see someone claiming to be a hot mess. It’s almost like the latest craze – to be a disaster in appearance or in life, and yet maintain an attractiveness or appeal. Me? I’m a mess. There is no denying that, but there is no way that anyone would describe me as a hot mess.
Nothing Hot About this Mess
I don’t know when it became fashionable to be a mess. If there is an art to the whole mess thing, I’ve got it mastered. I can compete with the best for disorganization. Trust me, there’s nothing attractive or alluring about it.
I’ve struggled with my mess my whole life. When I was young, it was a constant battle with my mother, who was convinced that my messy room was a form of defiance, proof to her that I didn’t love her. It was also a constant point of conflict in my 15-year marriage, and probably played a big part in its demise.
There were periods in my life when I did better. My various rooms and shared apartments when I was at university were fairly easy to keep tidy. My apartment when I first lived in Japan was actually amazingly organized, but I guess I really didn’t own much. As soon as my then-fiancee moved in with me the place cluttered up and the chaos never left.
I’ve always been embarrassed to invite anyone into my private abode. Right now even the hint that someone might be dropping by sends waves of panic over me. I’m horrified if the teenagers bring a friend home, and the little ones are given a very firm “sorry but no” to playdates at our house. This is a particularly difficult point for me, because I always dreamed of being the ‘go-to’ house for the kids and their friends.
You Think I Have What?!
Near the end of my marriage, my husband one day exclaimed excitedly that he finally understood why I was such a mess.
“You have a disorder,” he proclaimed with a disturbingly gleeful smile. “You can’t help it that you are a mess because you have ADHD.”
After my initial automatic defensive reaction of offended horror, I listened to his explanation. He’d watched a documentary on people living with Adult ADHD, or AADHD. It was eye-opening to realize how many of the traits and quirks of the program subjects were mirrored in me. Curious, I took a variety of online ADHD tests. On the general ADHD self-diagnosis tests I usually score around 70%. Possible, perhaps even likely, but not definitive. A self-test for ADHD in women however, consistently scores in the 90s for me.
“So why do you keep taking the tests?” my partner asks…
“Ummmm….” I have no answer for that.
Atypically Atypical
As much as I hate to agree with my ex-husband, I’m fairly certain he was right. Short of a formal medical diagnosis, I am fairly confident that I can claim to have at the very least, mild AADHD. I don’t really think I had it as a child. Apparently one of the traits of ADHD is an inability to accurately self-monitor though, so who knows. I suppose it is more that I don’t associate myself with the stereotypical bouncing-off-the-walls-can’t-focus-for-two-minutes image of childhood ADHD. I was quiet, calm, studious, and well, basically “good”. Teachers loved me.
When I went to school in the 70s-80s, ADHD was not a thing. The overactive kids were simply the troublemakers, the class clowns, or the special kids who were just a bit off the norm. We didn’t know anything about learning disabilities, disorders, or other special needs. They say that ADHD doesn’t simply appear later in life though, so if I have it now, I had it as a child.
Even in today’s classrooms, I am sure I would have slipped under the radar. Always a serious daydreamer, I was an absolute disaster at keeping my desk, cubby, or locker even remotely civilized. The edges of my papers were always riddled with scribbles and doodles. I was constantly losing my things and was so insecure and self-conscious that I was notoriously shy. The trademark hyperactive element that is common in boys is less noticeable in girls. My hyper-focus was on being “good” and that meant I sat still, did my work, and followed rules. Disorganization and procrastination (part of the inattention factor) meant that I did all my assignments at the last minute, but I did them well so nobody bothered me about it.
Of course, there are also studies that claim that adult-onset ADHD is possible, most commonly in women. Others suggest that these women were simply not diagnosed in childhood due to the ‘quiet’ symptoms common in girls compared to the ‘disruptive’ behavior typical in boys. Either way, I was, or at least seemed like, a very normal child.
Yes, Sometimes I Hate Myself
It is never easy going though life knowing that you are an absolute disaster at …well, everything. Even so, I’m generally a positive person. I don’t suffer from self-loathing (much) and I have never had serious thoughts of ending myself in any way. Admittedly, I have occasionally thought that an unfortunate accident could actually be fortunate. I have a high enough opinion of myself and my abilities though, to know I have an important place in this world.
That said, there are days that I quite simply hate myself. Those days when I can’t find some important paperwork that I know I saw recently, no matter how much I tear apart my disaster of a desk and its surrounding piles of disorder. Or the days when every room I walk into screams chaos at me… So, just about every day of my life lately.
All of my talents and abilities cannot make up for the failure I feel at managing the basics of life. I have to work very hard to maintain an acceptable level of “adult”. It is honestly quite exhausting. As I get older, I am finding that I am less and less able to justify me to myself. My excuses run thin. Even the more recent addition of AADHD to my repertoire of excuses for my shortcomings hasn’t been enough to bring me all the way out of the pit of despair I sometimes fall into.
So yes, sometimes I hate myself.
I Am an Oil Painting
Have you ever looked at an oil painting? We’ve all seen them. Doctor’s office walls have them. Grand museums display them. Your grandmother’s house probably had some. But have you ever really looked at one? From a distance, in the way they are supposed to be viewed, oil paintings are often amazing. Beautiful landscapes, romantic cityscapes, even bowls of unrealistically delicious looking fruit – oil paintings are impressive. If you get up close though, you see the reality of the painting. Trees reveal themselves to be haphazard blobs of paint. Crisp mountain ranges become splotches of light and dark. Nothing is what it seems, and the big picture is lost.
I am an oil painting. From my perspective, all I can see is a disarray of splotches and chaotic color. Edges are blurred and nothing is defined. Piles of disorder loom at every angle. Everything about me is a mess.
The picture changes drastically if I take a few steps back and look again. From a distance, I see an image unfold in all its beauty. I may fail at the details, but my grand picture is spectacular. Perhaps I am a hot mess after all.