Led Zeppelin told me I had ADHD at the age of 45. Me, a geriatric mom, was on drugs. Driving a Prius. Toddler and husband in the backseat. Mid-song — Robert Plant is crooning about his “street corner girl.” Wait. What?
I asked my husband, “Is this song about a prostitute?”
It was nuts. I had been listening to this song on a cassette tape since the ’90s, a teenager in my maroon Chevy Cavalier. Now, some 30 years later, it was only as a middle-aged mom on ADHD meds that I was able to hear the words over John Bonham’s drumming.
The first morning I took meds, I swallowed one blue capsule and a couple of hours later, my mind was laser focused on the fact that Robert wanted to “ball” a woman all day. I laughed out of grownup surprise — that moment you realize a song you innocently listened to as a kid is about sex.
Even more stunning was my newfound superpower, the ability to follow the words throughout the entire song. I had gained a sixth sense: not sight, hearing, touch, taste, or smell. The meds opened up an exponential sense of attentiveness, hearing beyond the noise of the kickdrum, bass, banging, and beats.
It felt incredible. Is this what Spider-Man felt like after he was bit by the spider? When he discovered that he could throw webs and climb walls? Cause I felt like I had just acquired some serious Spidey sense.
I was in awe of my newfound powers: Is this what “active listening” feels like? Verbal comprehension? Not just nodding as someone rattles on about details you’re mildly interested in? Maybe I’m not as dense as I thought.
The second day was even more revelatory than the first. I found myself with my husband in a way that I’d never been before. We were in a heated conversation, and I sat next to him for half an hour. Half an hour — this was a conversational Iron Man for someone like me. I’m infamously unsettled and uncomfortable. I need to fulfill my needs. Get a drink. Laundry. Put on a hoodie. Keep moving. I tend to say as I’m getting up, “I’m still listening.” Except that, often, I’m not. Actively nodding while not absorbing a word of what you said has been one of my coping mechanisms.
That day on legal drugs was like turning up the volume on my husband and we noticed the change at the same moment: I hadn’t been pulled away from my seat to do anything else.
I wasn’t even trying.
My ADHD pill was quieting my inner drummers, like a cigarette buzz or a drink in the past.
“See, I’m not trying to be an a-hole, honey.”
“I noticed. You haven’t moved.”
“Robert Plant let me know I have ADHD and now you.”
Medicated and still, I had given my undivided attention to two men in less than 48 hours. What will I be able to do next?
Historically, my external facade betrays me. You see my big brown doe eyes, giving you direct eye contact, but I’ve got a Led Zeppelin brain. There’s a mental rock band having a 24/7 concert, and it may care about you, but is easily distracted or drawn to whatever audience is in front of them in the moment.
Before meds, the band members weren’t getting along. Bonham is winning. Maybe he grabs a cowbell when in need of attention. Sometimes the inner chaos is funny and entertaining — other times absolutely devastating. It can explode into epic arguments, volatile reactions, and alcoholic lows. One band member wants to bang a lady, and the other one wants to smoke a joint. Another one just wants to get to work and write a song, but no one listens to that gal. They all want more: travel, wine, and dopamine-fueled excitement, but really, they just need some sleep and a warm meal. Sober. Hydrated. Alone.
I’m a Gen X late bloomer raised in a Filipino American family. I may be the last in my generation to have a kid and first to take ADHD meds. I’ve been sober from alcohol for years now. Many people in recovery rooms have brains like mine. We’ve tried self-medicating, and it stopped working after a while.
I hit my alcoholic bottom in my 30s, physically and mentally, wasted and heartbroken, on a tiled floor in a bar in Spain. I missed my chair and fractured my pelvis, which resulted in my first emergency room visit and an inflatable donut for my broken bum.
Little did I know that undiagnosed ADHD impacts your whole life and relationships. By 2018, at 40 years old, I was self-destructing. The mental band was breaking up, and the booze wasn’t fun anymore. I broke up with my then-boyfriend and best friend to move into a downtown apartment with smelly shag carpet and a mediocre pool. The dopamine craving wasn’t a choice lifestyle or lifestyle choice. It’s an exhausting ride for everyone. Nearing mental breakdown, I thought, “Please let me off this rollercoaster or I’ll jump off myself.”
When desperation hit, I called my best friend and asked for help. Many people fatally do not. I did the 12-steps. Asked my ex-boyfriend if he’d consider giving me a second chance. We got married in a courthouse, masked and pregnant. I joined a writing group and recovery space. Ended up with a therapist who has ADHD. She kindly asked if I had it too. I knew in an instant that the answer was “yes.” When offered some medicine to provide some relief, I said, “Yes.”
There’s been no turning back. It’s not John’s drumsticks that are the loudest in the arena anymore. My voice resounds through the cacophony. It’s the sound of me tapping the keyboard to the beats of my inner drum. She goes tap, tap, tap, this way and that — free, lively, and unstoppable.
Dianne Rosales Siasoco is an Iowa writer.
This article originally appeared on Des Moines Register: Led Zeppelin told me I had ADHD, and so much became clear | Opinion
Reporting by Dianne Rosales Siasoco, Guest columnist / Des Moines Register
USA TODAY Network via Reuters Connect
By Dianne Rosales Siasoco, Guest columnist | USA TODAY Network
