So, I'm working on a memoir of sorts. Anyone here that wouldn't mind taking a look at what i have so far? its absolutely disjointed and basically me writing in "explosions of memory". Ill warn you, some of it is pretty dark. anyway.. thanks in advance
The cracks began where trust should live—
I broke the vows, took more than gave,
let silence fester, lies I’d give
to hide the self I couldn’t save.
ADHD, depression—names
for all the static in my head.
But pain explained is not the same
as pain endured. The words I’ve said
(and didn’t say) became a wall.
Now every stumble, every fall—
she catalogs with surgical care:
the tone, the time, the unpaid care,
the way I breathe, the way I sit.
My flaws, a script she won’t forget.
I know I broke her. Know the cost.
But god, the silence makes me small.
Each try to heal, each step I’ve lost—
she meets with, “You. You feel it all.
Your feelings always come in first.”
And maybe that’s the curse, the worst:
I try to speak a small hurt’s name—
she turns it back into my shame.
So am I narcissist? Just lost?
A man who broke what mattered most,
now flinching at the daily frost?
My brain just aches. My heart’s a ghost.
I want to get better. I swear I do.
But how when every word I use
feels like a weapon turned on me—
no room to breathe, no truce, no sea
to wash this low, this lonely through?
Fuck.
​
The world wants a straight line, a clean, quiet room,
a single flame focused to cut through the gloom.
But you, you’re a wildfire, a live-wire, a spark—
a brilliant chaos that lights up the dark.
They say focus, you hear twenty radios play.
They say simple, your mind builds a galaxy’s sway.
You’ve wept over keys in the wrong, absent place,
and carried the weight of a thousand "lost pace."
But listen. That hum that the neuro-typical stall?
That’s the engine of someone who feels everything fall
into patterns they can’t see, connections that soar—
a superpower searching for its own door.
So what if your timing runs on a different strange clock?
What if your brilliance arrives outside of their box?
You’ve survived every storm your own neurons could spin.
That’s not broken, my friend. That’s how you’ve always gotten in.
Forget "should." Put the shame down, it was never your name.
You don’t need to be fixed, you just need a different game.
Forgive the lost hours, the late fees, the spin.
Today you can start, and stop, and begin again.
Because the sun doesn’t ask if the wild grass is tall.
The river just moves—it forgives every fall.
And so can you, in the static, the rush, and the rain:
You are not a malfunction. You are a brain.
A beautiful brain. Unruly, alive.
Learning, in waves, not just to strive… but to thrive.
Most Days
My brain has fifteen tabs open,
and I can't find which one is playing the music.
I walk into a room
and stand there, blank.
I was looking for my keys.
No, my phone.
No, the word for that thing.
I start one task,
then another,
then another.
At the end of the day,
I'm exhausted
and half of it's not done.
People say, "Just focus."
Like I haven't tried.
Like my own mind isn't
a loud house I live in
every single second.
But here's the other part
no one sees.
When I care about something,
I really care.
I stay up too late learning it.
I forget to eat.
I feel everything hard.
And I've learned
to forgive myself
for the lost keys,
the missed calls,
the mess in the car.
I'm not broken.
I'm just wired differently.
Some days are harder.
But I'm still here.
Still trying.
Still me.
Living with ADHD and depression at 40 isn’t what you think. It’s not being hyper or sad. It’s waking up every day with 40 TV channels blaring in my head while wearing a 200-pound wet lead coat. Simple things—emails, showers, picking up my keys—feel like climbing a cliff. I’m not lazy, because laziness feels good. I never feel good. I’m just exhausted from a war you can’t see. I’m telling you this not for pity, but so you might understand why I disappear, why I’m late, or why I can’t ‘just try harder.’ I am trying harder than you can possibly imagine, just to be this functional
Living with ADHD and depression at 40 isn’t what you think. It’s not being hyper or sad. It’s waking up every day with 40 TV channels blaring in my head while wearing a 200-pound wet lead coat. Simple things—emails, showers, picking up my keys—feel like climbing a cliff. I’m not lazy, because laziness feels good. I never feel good. I’m just exhausted from a war you can’t see. I’m telling you this not for pity, but so you might understand why I disappear, why I’m late, or why I can’t ‘just try harder.’ I am trying harder than you can possibly imagine, just to be this functional