Not a picnic

I love a person who has Adult ADHD. And it is not some kind of a picnic, I will tell you.

Actually, I won’t tell you. I will be too busy trying to be empathetic and also hide my shame about both being a not empathetic person and about the stuff in the relationship that is hard.

I do not have to worry that the person I love will read this, because although we have been dating for years, and he knows that I write here, it is unthinkable that the chain of things that might drive him to read my blog would come together once, let alone weekly. My foot-by-foot on the rail response to this fact  is one that is called up often by the relationship.

Let’s get out of the way that the thing about ADHD is you can’t. It’s not that you don’t want to, it’s that you can’t.

You can’t leave your keys in the same place every time. You can’t not wait until the last minute. You can’t just text to say hi. You can’t remember that my show is opening next week.

It’s not that you don’t want  to. You can’t.

I know about can’t. I am crazy also, have been crazy beyond can. It’s not that I didn’t want to stop making terrible choices and it’s not that I didn’t want to get better.

But I want to try very hard not to write about that side. I want to write about this side. I don’t always notice the distance, I am pretty busy, my life is pretty full and my friends are very good. But when I stop and look at it, there is often a cold shock.

Sometimes the important thing is coming- the show or the party or the something and I'm already hedging. I'm already putting on my single-girl armor. I'm telling him it doesn't matter that he can't, or I'm telling myself that it won't matter if he doesn't and that seems sort of true at the time. And then there is some moment when I remember that I'm not supposed to be a single girl.

To the person I pick for first, I send emails and don't expect responses, I sent invitations and anticipate flying solo, I send texts that will likely be unanswered. This isn't so bad until it is.

But it's not that he doesn't want to. It's that he can't.

And I’ve learned only to give the help I’m asked for. I think that is a good policy for the people you love unless they are a danger to themselves. But it is shiny black cold shitty to watch the person run themself into the ground. Oh. Now the deadline is a week away. Oh, now the bill is $500. Oh now you are half an hour late.

Nag or watch. Or nag then watch. It is not any kind of a picnic.

Maybe this is the best thing for me? As I am independent, like my time and space, have lots of other sources of validation and also need to learn to stop controlling people? Sometimes this is perfect, for real.

Maybe the thing to look at is the way I need a relationship to look like a thing, the way I use other people's can'ts to make my own don't-have-to's. Maybe this is a good training in letting people be who they are?

It’s a fuck of a lot better than it used to be. But that heavy-cast bell of fear still rings pretty regularly in here.

And it sucks.

Sorry. I've been about my Father's business

On Friday I bought the Art Church. It was a long time coming. Maybe all the time that I know. My entire life I’ve walked past empty spaces, fire houses (like the one Zack ended up with) abandoned buildings (like the one LaMaMa ended up with) and thought, "just get me one of those.”

Last week, Dominique at work was sitting in the office looking bummed out. Over the weekend she’d applied for a job to go teach in Japan. Her and six white men at a table. The recruiter asked her if she’d be willing to straighten her gorgeous hair which she wears on top of her head in this beautiful signature coronet. That night she dreamed that she was waiting for a train and realized that the train she wanted was on the other side of the tracks, going the other direction. She jumped onto the tracks to try to catch it, and tripped. “I should have known,” she said. “Stay on track. The message is to work on my music.”

Yes, yes and yes, Dominique, work on your music. Remember, Andrew, you’re an artist. Lucas, speak up. John, we’re all waiting for you to hang out, Rat fix your mirror.

That’s why I wanted to buy the Art Church. So that when that moment happens and Dominique says that she needs to be brave and and admit that her track is the music, I can say “I can help.”  We are all so scared to do what we know we should and we need chances to do it. We need a place for becoming.

I came to Philly dreaming of making this place when, like Dominique, I got off track. How much easier to be a teacher, a happy helper, a volunteer and a wife than to be an artist. How much safer. And how cavernous it made the places under my skin. 

How much easier to rent myself than be it.

How long it took to admit the truth. That I love art, and I love storymaking and life-figuring  and human-being and my dream is to facilitate those things on my own terms. Maybe I had to come so far through so much because I had to get those terms worthy of the enterprise.

Sharpened on fear anxiety and pain, I really know what I hold sacred. And it’s worthy of being enshrined, lived and celebrated.

I’m ready to fuck it up, to make a place for fucking up and to embrace everyone who wants to take a risk and fuck up, too.

So blessings on you, Art Church, my pencils are sharp enough. Let’s start this shit up.