A Day in the Life#

Do you remember much of secondary school science? Bits and bobs, right? Do you remember the experiment with waves, and what happens when two wave crests combine?

In this case it’s know as ‘constructive interference’. The wave crests add together to create a crest the size of the two heights combined. Conversely, when a crest encounters a trough, they add together also, but the trough is now negative, so they essentially subtract. This is known as ‘destructive interference’.

My experience of anxiety is that it also behaves as a waveform. At my worst times, the crests are so high you can’t see to the bottom, but the troughs are still above seas level. At my best times, it’s like bobbing about on the Arboretum lake in a grotty, swan-shaped pedalo; happy and carefree, but could be better.

It’s a similar story with depression. From a mental point of view, you’d imagine a bout to be a trough, but for the sake of this tired analogy, it’s the other way around.

These two cycles are mostly independent of each other. Imagine the bow waves of a cruiseliner encountering those of an oil tanker, they’ll sync up from time to time. When they do, that mighty wave can be utterly overwhelming. To take the corollary of the maritime analogy, a tsunami if you will. Thankfully though, with help, and a little stabilising with medication, those waves are still there, and still occasionally interfere, but now imagine a rowing boat and a duck; a bit wobbly, but it’s ok.

Now I’ve recognised the ADHD, I realise there’s a third wave bouncing around the pool.

I felt a little off as soon as I woke up, but I just put it down to dehydration and grogginess. I got up, as I usually do, and went straight to put on the kettle. It was bright in the kitchen, which is weird, because it rarely is. Our kettle beeps when it comes to temperature, and the sound almost made my fillings ignite. My coffee tasted excessively bitter, and my amazing (thank you Claire) lockdown-banana-bread breakfast tasted very sweet. I realise I’m being impatient when I walk upstairs with Claire’s breakfast and tea. She looks at me a little confuddled, ‘I was just on my way.’

I finish my awful cup of coffee and start putting my shoes on, ‘shall we take the dog then?’ Claire hasn’t finished her tea yet. What’s wrong with me?

We plod along the road towards the river path, and every car that goes past sounds like a 747. I can smell every individual pollen particle as it hits the mucous membrane in my nostril. I remembered the antihistamines for once. My tooth aches.

We get to the river path and the sounds of the traffic die off behind to be replaces by a resplendent chorus of birdsong, as always. I’ve always enjoyed this walk in the morning. To hear the sound of traffic and the smell of diesel fumes die away to be replaced by running water, birds, and nettle flowers always feels very poignant. There are a lot of birds today, the chorus is more of a cacophony. I see twitches of leaves in my periphery, hear the crunch of sand under my feet, I can taste the air coming off the river, smell the bark on the trees.

Claire and I talked, but I don’t remember of what.

On the way back, it all became too much. ‘Are you ok? You don’t look ok?’ Claire asks.

I’m not. I have a tiny panic attack.

We head home, smiling ironically at people as we cut a wide berth around them. I get in the house. I don’t remember the journey back. I sit down and have another little panic attack. It must be bad, because the dog licks my tear-soaked cheek and leans against me in a classic hound-hug. There’s no way I can conduct eight one-to-ones today. I send my team an apology, I won’t be working today. The soft-touch keyboard sounds like Ginger Baker in The White Room.

The rest of the day I’ve spent mostly like this article’s thumbnail, with a hood drawn down over my ears and eyes, a blanket around my knees, trying to concentrate on the words of a book to the exclusion of the outside. It’s almost five o’clock and it’s starting to subside. I’m exhausted.

One of the traits of ADHD is hypersensitivity, and today has been one of those days where I can hear the colour of a fly’s smell. When it’s bad, I can usually cope. When it comes with an anxiety wave, I still haven’t learnt to handle that.

I’ve seen it now. I don’t understand it, but I can recognise it. Today has been a bad day. Tomorrow will be better.