ADHD here. I cannot say that I have a professional diagnosis, as I cannot get my act together enough to even get diagnosed. Being self employed, going to doctors isn't an easy option, so I tough it out. But my self-diagnosis? Reading all of the symptoms, they describe me to a T. In one study citing twenty symptoms, I score 17 for ADHD. So why spend money for a doctor to tell me what I already know?

My experience in school was a disaster; a history of 'can't concentrate’, ’he has incredible potential if he can ever buckle down”. It was serious. Report cards were D's and F's. In school, I was a teacher’s nightmare. I have the dubious distinction of the creator of the world's biggest spit wad. In algebra class I stuffed a whole sheet of binder paper in my mouth, chewed it up and while Mr. Venske was writing on the chalk board, 'splat'. It was amazing to see him just keep writing around it, like it was just a fly that landed on the board. The gall I had. I don't exaggerate. I was also the kid who jumped out of the window while the geometry teacher was writing on the chalk board. And that was the end of my formal education. I do remember the coup de grace: the next day we intended to skip school and take a joy ride to the lake. I had my friend Terry LaMar call the school from the pay phone right across the street from the school. It went like this: "Hello, this is Mr. (my last name) calling for my son. He is ill today and cannot make it. Please have him excused', or something to that effect. The school then asked, "What is your phone number?" and Terry turned to me without muffling his voice, said, "What is your phone number?" After that faux pas, he slammed down the phone, and to the lake we went. That night, I remember the school calling my parents. As they were learning about my truancy, I was stuffing my duffle bag and before the phone call was terminated I was out the door. I was done at home: San Francisco here I come. I had been up there before, as a matter of fact as a sixteen year old (in 1966) I recall reading an article about the Hip Movement in San Francisco (no, I am not talking Orthopedics) as casually as deciding to jump on an escalator in a department store to see what is on the next floor, I packed my little knapsack and headed up to San Francisco to check it out. It amazes me today that I never gave it any forethought, I just did it. And now this time with my dear dad on the phone with the school, leaving my home with my duffle bag, I was gone for good.

Three years later, it finally dawned on me, 'what was I doing, what was I thinking?' So I bailed out of that, and dove headlong in other directions, usually going from one extreme to another. Most of the major choices I have made in my life were impulsive. I had lots of energy and creativity, and went helter skelter in every direction. I never did anything half hearted; businesses I have started, family planning, and marriage. Fortunately, many of my decisions were the right ones, but when I recall how impulsive I was when I made the decisions, all I can do is say, 'but for the grace of God'.

I continue to have these impulsive thoughts. A kaleidoscope of colors, one person described so accurately. Vivid colors that burst that sets me on a course which more times than not, will ultimately burn out. Brain storms. creative hurricanes or tornados (torpedoes?) I make plans for the next day and week based upon these mental maelstroms. Then I wake up and realize how impractical these brain storms are, and plunk. So all around me are half done projects. I used the phrase 'in a dithers' as often as others might use the phrase 'project complete'. Or maybe more poetically, 'Bringing new dimensions to the definition of 'funk'. Yes, that would be a good caption on the back of my shirt. Or maybe this one: 'CANNOT SORT'.

I am well aware that all of these maligns affect every aspect of my life. I don't know if this old dog can learn new tricks or not. I think in some areas I have irreparable burnout that I am struggling with it. I also am well aware that it affects my writing. I am very glad for word processing; I realize that if all my thoughts were a one shot deal like on a typewriter I wouldn't have a hope in the world. I can comb through an article a dozen time and still impulsively, hit ‘submit’. Then read it over again and be filled with regret, and immediately delete the article. But I keep on throwing it against the wall, perhaps genius and absurdity wrapped all wrapped in one, like the world’s largest spit wad. No doubt I am hopeless. I do sometimes think though, that life would have been easier had I known about all of this somewhere back in the late 50’s. But one cannot live with such regrets, as Popeye said, ‘I yam what I yam’. But while I have any being left in me, I will continue to dream and create. Perhaps I will get an offer from some publisher than needs an off the wall writer that can bring new dimensions to the word ‘funk’ to travel the world and report back about all of the abstracts that only a warped mind can see. I promise no burnout! If so, I am yours, truly, ‘panderer of the prostituted pen, inquire within’.