I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell.

 I am well aware that something is wrong with me.

I remember thinking that  one of the worst things I could imagine was to have a traumatic brain injury to the point of losing a large amount of one's cognitive ability, but not one's memory.  Because then you would be aware that things used to be different, that you used to be able to think more clearly and function more easily than you did, that you used to be able to enjoy different activities and more perform more complex tasks.  You used to be able to take care of yourself.  And now you cannot.  And maybe you can remember and comprehend why, or maybe you cannot.  And that, to me, seemed like hell.  

(I don't know why I specifically linked this idea with a mental disability/brain injury.  Looking at this paragraph now it's clear to me that all of these things apply to physical disabilities as well.  I've just always had a particular horror of losing my cognitive function.)

And yet, this is the situation in which I find myself living.

When I was a student I kept a balance.  I went to school full time, I juggled all of my projects and papers, I worked twenty hours a week.  It was a heavy load, but I managed it (likely in no small part due to the fact that I was living at home, and my mother handled all of the cooking, cleaning, and laundry).  When I moved out in my early twenties, I managed.  I had a full time job, I had a chore routine, the apartment was clean.  

I recognise that in part this is because I was living alone in a five room apartment with a single cat.  Even then, my cleaning regime was hardly extensive.  I managed to fuck up my "easy to clean" glass stovetop pretty fast.

The more complicated my life grew, the more function I lost.  My now-husband moved in.  We acquired (many) more pets.  I changed jobs multiple times.  I had a severely traumatic experience and had to adjust to life on SSRIs.  We moved twice, once to a different country.  My mental and physical health, and that of my husband, plummeted.  I stopped cleaning, I stopped writing...and I didn't just stop doing these things, I stopped being able to do them.  I used to painstakingly oil my wooden furniture once a week, and now the thought of cleaning out our garage sends me into crying fits.

This is not uncommon for people with ADHD, and it particularly seems to be a trend with women.  We function, and we function, and we function, until we can't.  Our lives hit a particular level of complexity, and our brains, already stretched to their limits, break down.  And then our lives implode.  We're left standing in the wreckage, picking up the pieces of our shattered lives as best we can.  And sometimes there's just no fixing them.

I used to be able to do this.

I used to be able to keep my house clean and organised.

I used to be able to work full time.  

I used to be able to write thousands of words a day.

And I know that I used to be able to do these things.

I have been living my own personal hell, and not realising it.

And perhaps even worse than that is some people's assumption that I don't realise this, that I don't realise my life is a shambles and I need to do better. The assumption that the fact that I haven't done these things means I don't know they have to be done.

Your house is a mess.

I know.

You haven't written anything original in two years.

I know.

You're forty years old and you don't have a career.

I know.

If you don't write things down you'll forget them.

I know.

You used to be be able to do this.

I know. I know. I know.

I have also only just realised that most of the above statements have never been said to me by anyone but my own mind.  So...am I fighting my own assumptions, then?  God knows.