Over the past three years I’ve accepted that there are things I (literally) cannot prioritize. The overwhelming, never ending avalanche of domestic maintenance can, and does, shut me down- sometimes for weeks or months on end. And then would come the shame, the self-loathing rooted in the idea that I’m “supposed” to be able to do these things. I’m a disgusting failure because they’re simple, easy tasks. Everyone else does them just fine.

Okay well good for them. I finally decided I wasn’t going to beat myself up or apologize for the way I’m wired. So I outsourced. In the apartment, no one really questioned it because I didn’t have a washer, dryer, or dishwasher (and my hands were horribly affected by an autoimmune issue). And still, when I threw out there that I’d pay or trade someone to do dishes, I got a lot of “why” and pushback. Why does it matter? Why should I have to justify myself to anyone for any of it? I still had too much invested in the implication behind the insult of their curiosity. I still feel an intense aggression directly descended from defensiveness about it. I want to fight over it. I will fight you over it.

I didn’t know I had ADHD, I just thought it was more evidence of how much of a fuck up I was. Such a “brilliant” kid with all this potential and I can’t even bring myself to do dishes or fold laundry or cook a hot meal. It still makes my skin crawl and the thought of it exhausts me. Years into recovery and growth, years into forging out of hellfire the woman I’m proud to be growing into, and that’s still a fact of my life. I can’t tell you how much I do not want to do these things, not because I’m lazy, but because they make my brain screech like broken glass down a chalk board.

I’ve been working on finding/creating solutions that ease the friction between ADHD and my responsibilities. It was easier in the apartment before The Great Reconciliation because I was alone half the time, there was a lot more silence for me to work in. In a full house, full-time, there’s almost none of that, and the solutions to the friction have to be firmly in place- because my family deserves my consideration every bit as much as I deserve theirs.

This is a constant work in progress, a constant attempt at forthright communication between me, the man I love, and our babies (who apparently also have ADHD, sorry everyone). I know it’s hard for J to be the backbone and bedrock of our household when he’s basically surrounded by wayward cats; it’s hard for anyone who’s never had to deal with this to wrap their heads around it.

To most folks, 2+2=4; if something needs to be done you do it. Ezpz. In my brain, way too often, 2+2=[ERROR], and I struggle with the guilt of it. I don’t want to leave more work for him to do, I don’t leave laundry or dishes undone because I expect him to do it. I know he will, and I know it’s more work piled on top of the astronomical amount of work he’s already putting in, and I know it bothers him. Balancing the -nope- I need with the kind of peace he needs is an endless math equation I lose sleep over. That’s not his fault or responsibility. I also know how inconsiderate and selfish it can feel when you’re on the other end of this disease, I know how inconsiderate and selfish it can feel when your partner does apparently nothing and leaves the work for you to do, because his peace requires it be done. My faith in the truth of who I am holds the line, but it’s still a fight.

Sick of fighting. I still feel like I have to fight to have my virtues recognized, that I’m still living under the shadow of perceived ineptitude, laziness, or failure. No one else’s perceptions of me matter at the end of the day, but to pretend like family and community don’t impact our mental and emotional health is ignorant. I’m still unlearning the hurt and fear at the heart of my defensiveness, and one day I won’t feel it at all, but I get defensive because I know I’m not lazy. I’m just also still in the process of teaching myself the truth of the matter; I am entitled to do with my free time what I want or need. Not what’s expected of me.

And boy, let me tell you- Learning the difference between expectations and standards revolutionized my life almost as much as being treated properly for the wild chemistry in my head. Recognizing that my expectations were bogus and based on my own self-centeredness helped alleviate so much of the pressure I was putting on my relationships, that’s a whole other novella, but that my standards were the benchmark for my wants and needs being met. Navigating the expectations of the people in my life had always been a constant, crippling torment. “You’re smart so you should be able to do this.” “You should know what I need.” “You’re better than this.” “You’re too smart to make these mistakes.” The (often unspoken) “should”s and “supposed to”s burned like acid in my veins.

I was failing everyone, all the time. I couldn’t do the dishes, I couldn’t clean the things, I couldn’t be affectionate enough, emotionally present enough, I couldn’t get anything that mattered to anyone who mattered right. I sank under the weight of it. Sank all the way down to rock bottom, and then rotted even further down into the cracks. Not knowing about bipolar, and then ADHD, not understanding the toxicity of expectations, not having the right understanding or medicine or treatment, almost took my life from me. This hurricane of circumstances almost took me from my babies.

Whether anyone around me understands the expectations/standards difference isn’t necessarily relevant right now, I know their feelings about the way I do or do not live up to their expectations isn’t my responsibility. I know I am doing everything in my power to take care of myself, my family, and our future. I am doing everything in my power to live up to the standards I believe they deserve, and I hope that I meet and exceed the ones they hold. And I hope they’d communicate with me if not. I want to show them they’re worth it, that every ounce of the fight in me is for them as much as myself.

It took an unimaginable amount of effort to keep this victory from being pyrrhic, and I couldn’t have done it without J and my family and friends. But I refuse to ignore or downplay how much of my own strength it took to drag my sorry ass out of that hell. That isn’t something anyone else could do for me, and I don’t know if I would have the strength to do it again. I do know I will never let myself fall that far down again. I will never let my spirit be weighed down by someone else’s ideas about what I ought to be or do. I’ll burn the house down, figuratively, before I’ll let myself get backed into that corner. Every success is a fight won over demons I didn’t have a choice in carrying, and I’m strong enough from it now to swing on god himself and win, if he decides to try some shit. That “never again” is my standard, my coat of arms, and my call to war.

No, I don’t care about dishes or laundry outside of the inconvenience of not having clean stuff when I need it. When I need to, I’ll ignore it, delegate it to the goblins, or hire a cleaning service. I will do whatever it takes to keep myself healthy for my Self and my family. I will always put my heart and soul into living up to my love’s standards, and every single time I’ve got the spoons to do it, I’ll gladly make myself uncomfortable if it’s needed to give him that peace. He does the same and so much more for me. This is our little see-saw, and somehow we always find our balance.

I’ve still got plenty plenty work to do, letting go of the shame and guilt that do not serve me. I am relentless in this pursuit, and thus I am inevitable. The future is endless, and I’m hungry for it.