Most stories are told to captivate an audience. Spoken after dinner in entertaining tones to friends around the crackling of a fire, over a wine or three.
And that, I have indeed done, in many a location. But more.
I have boldly snatched the focus so that its squarely set on me.
I have dominated and commanded a private meeting or friendly gathering. I have screeched out snippets, recounted chapters and cried line after line through the telephone.
My words and sentences so fiercely and forcefully spoken have been described as free falling verbal diarrhoea, intensely passionate, confusing at times, aggressive even, and always containing such shocking or sorrowful content.
I have been this type of story teller time and time again, so -much-so that the label my mother stamped on me as a child – “drama queen”, surely has been worn by me throughout the duration of my forty years of life.
Other stories are woven through the written word, expertly recorded, containing much credibility and printed with uttermost style and dignity.
Indeed these type of stories are purposefully crafted to inspire the turning of the page, the selling of a book, escapism from the mundane day to day.
Or in similar style these type of stories are written as a way to record and preserve history, to share information through time, to convey an idea or educate the mind.
This story, is different.
This story is for me.
It is personal, it is calm and calculated, it is a brave effort to convert my thoughts and life into writing.
It is so that I might establish a reference of my experience, that I can count upon to access when my emotions flood through my neurological matter and my words fail me!
It is for the girls, guys, women, men who are currently living who might seek and scroll like me, through the pages of Internet data like I did. In search of an answer, or to see if anyone else is suffering alike. Somebody real who they can connect with.
And finally it’s for the mothers and the brothers, for the sisters and the teachers, the friends and the fathers, the husbands and the lovers, my own and those of everyone who has this thing called ADD or ADHD.
A story that has been lived and lives on, as an experience, that it might be drawn upon as a lesson, a reference, as a parallel and ultimately, as a reminder that ADHD is real.