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Life Updates from a Twenty-Something

Long time, no see.

When I started this blog I told myself that I would write one blog post a week. And I did do that… for a little bit. There’s no such thing as excuses, but life definitely got in the way the last two months.

This summer I planned to be as financially independent as possible. After moving to a new apartment, starting two new jobs, I realize that it’s really difficult. But, I knew it would be.

May and June were tough. My summer class in Stats was demanding in effort and time. Nearing the end of the course, I spent 5 hours in the Carleton library, my head inches from the screen of my laptop, attempting not to cry. I cursed myself for dropping out when things got hard in this same class during the fall. But, I asked around for some tips, and after receiving help from a few individuals I ended up with an A-. I most definitely surprised myself, and couldn’t have done it on my own.

On top of Stats, my two new jobs were demanding. Their schedules overlapped, and in late May I ended up with 45+ hours each week between both of them.

I hear about my friends working for the government, making double my wage an hour, getting weekends off, buying expensive things and going on trips. There’s been many times where I’ve felt kind of bitter about working full time on minimum wage. It’s hard not to be.

However, earning and saving my own money has been rewarding. While most days, I go home to my little apartment and all of its plants, I make dinner and keep mostly to myself. I still go out with friends, I still treat myself to dinner from time to time, I still buy what I need, and perhaps at times a little bit more.

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I find at the end of the day, when I do come home from work, my body and mind are too tired to write. While throughout the day ideas still flow through my mind, endlessly, about what I could write – from Bill Maher’s n-word debacle, to Philando Castile, to SZA’s new album that came out  a few weeks ago – by the time I sit down to actually say something about them, the stories are no longer newsworthy. In this age, writing isn’t just a challenge in itself, most of the challenge is found in the timing and relevancy of the things you choose to draw from. Being tired and overworked don’t go hand in hand with this.

In my free time, I’m still writing. I’m just focusing more on fiction, which surprisingly I find more personal than my own blog posts. Perhaps I’ll share a story when I feel as though it’s been manicured enough to put out into the world. But for now, it’s just for my eyes only.

On another note, in a matter of days, I’ll be turning 21. June 28th really crept on me this year, so I haven’t really had time to think about turning 21, or even time to plan something with my friends. 20 seemed like a much bigger deal. Now it feels as though just another year has passed.

Perhaps I’m being so nonchalant about this birthday because I’m kind of feeling a bit self conscious. Heck, the other day I was at a party where one guy was talking about his participation in a Think Tank, while the other was going on about his internship in Uganda. While they discussed world politics, I was left in my own head, thinking about my customer service position at this little natural food store at the mall near my house, dealing with grumpy vegans and picky customers with a gluten intolerance.

Excelling is overrated, I tell myself. But really… I think I’d rather go slow and steady, making my way up this ladder at my own pace so I don’t suddenly slip and fall down. As a plus side, I get to see what I pass along the way.

Anyway, if you are reading this, thank you for keeping up with my blog. Every reader is deeply appreciated. I hope to come up with a better blog post in the weeks to come, and by then I’ll be just another year older. But first, I’ve gotta figure this adult thing out.

[Feature Photo source]

 

 

 

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ADHD

Just Focus: My Recent Diagnosis with ADHD

Just over a year ago, I read an article that changed my life.

Maria Yagoda, an author from The Atlantic, wrote about the generation of young women who have been living undiagnosed with ADHD. She explained that the disorder had been stereotyped, associated with the hyperactive young boys who disrupted elementary school classes. And the “women with the disorder tend to be less hyperactive and impulsive, more disorganized, scattered, forgetful, and introverted”, and they had been left wondering what was wrong with them.

Immediately, I was enamoured. My eyes were peeled to the screen, and I kept reading. It felt as though someone had been explaining exactly what I had been dealing ever since I could remember, and especially since I started University. And now,  skipping to just over a year later, I’ve officially been diagnosed with ADHD.

The road to a diagnosis

Trust me, the process in being diagnosed was not easy. I spent the next few months letting the information sink in and wondered if I actually wanted to be tested. Why would when I had already managed to live an exceptional life without one?

But then I realized I wasn’t… not technically.

IMG_5650In Elementary school I blended in with the other kids who didn’t focus, drawing when I wasn’t supposed to, but never disrupting the class. My lack of responsibilities in my youth let me live carefree.

At home, my mother and I fell into arguments about daily tasks that she would remind me in numerous ways at the beginning of each day. Simple chores like unloading the dishwasher or putting my clothes away, would slip my mind by the time I got home from school. She thought I was entitled, and that I didn’t appreciate the life she had given me. It was hard to explain that small domestic tasks were something that did not come to me naturally, that forgetting was not something I intended to do.

High school was a solid four years of disengagement. At school, I would need more than both hands to count the times I was told by teachers that I would truly succeed, that I would excel, if I just focused.  I sat at the back of class, doodling in the margins of my notebook or staring out a window twirling my hair, only looking up when my name was called or times when there was a discussion that sparked my interest. I left everything to the last minute but somehow managed to pull off straight A’s.

In University, I brought the same work ethic, but not the A’s.

I quickly realized I couldn’t write ten page papers worth thirty percent of my mark in one night – especially when I hadn’t done any of the mandatory, and tedious, readings.

The extremely structured schedule I cursed in high school was something I dreamed of having once again. Nothing was grounding me, and in the time that seemed free to use at my will was disposed of by wasting it.

My habit of hair twirling used to be cute, it was something I’d do when I was lost in thought and on the brink of sleep. Now, it transformed into something that I did compulsively, and obsessively. Something that people would stare at when we were conversing,  or even told to stop doing at dinner tables, but a few short moments later my hands would crawl up and start twisting and pulling at that one unfortunate strand of hair.

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The most frequent occurrence was when my mind drifted in the midst of conversations with professionals and friends. Staring them dead in the eye, nodding, irrelevant thoughts came to to the surface and suddenly the other person sounded like Charlie Brown’s parents. Then, they’d stop and I’d smile and nod as though I heard everything they were saying.

As a result of my inattentiveness, I was given the title of a bad listener, of not caring, of being irresponsible. My grades dropped to C’s and I gave off the impression of being apathetic, neglecting to remember coffee dates or birthdays, or important pieces of information. My undiagnosed ADHD symptoms were clouds, like overcast in my adolescence, and brewed into a storm in my early adulthood.

So no, to answer my earlier question, my life and my habits were not exceptional. For the life I wanted to live, and for everything I wanted to achieve in life, I needed the diagnosis.

The cost of a diagnosis

In the cold, desolate months of the Ottawa winter, my third year of University came to a predictable halt. Seasonal depression hit me like a brick amongst the impending stream of research essays, double digit negative weather, and the uploading of grades that really did not seem to match my level of my intelligence.

I found myself stuck, just like the last two years of school, wondering what the hell was wrong with me.

I watched my friends and peers, with equal drive and ambition, start assignments, go to work on time, and balance their busy social life with punctuality and a “just do it” mentality.

Why couldn’t I just do it?

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[Source]
I laid in my bed, staring across the room at an unopened text book and a Word document with one finished sentence out of a ten-page paper that was due the following day.  Next to it, was even more work, dirty dishes, and a pile of laundry that grew and grew with each following week.

It’s hard to explain how it feels living in a vicious cycle of inattentiveness. While there were other factors in my life that caused depression, there had always been a connection to its consistent arrival in the winter of each year, and my inability to achieve the success I wanted in all areas of my life.

It’s even harder to explain what I was experiencing  to a medical professional, in the latest hours a clinic that was opened on a Saturday night.

That one, I think I might have ADHD.

And two, I’m depressed.

To which, the white haired man in a matching lab coat scoffed and said the two could never correlated. He scrawled a referral to a psychologist anyway, but it was only for depression.

I left that clinic feeling invalidated and angry, it almost stopped me from taking the next steps I needed. I was incredibly desperate for an answer, and some help, but all he gave me was condescension.  

However, I went from referral to referral, using also my University’s tactless resources, and found myself in a place that seemed promising

The cost of ADHD is a shit ton of patience, people not believing you, six hours of strenuous psychological testing, a cheque with a price that I curse.

On May 4th 2017, I was handed some papers with my diagnosis. So, I guess it was worth it.

How can a piece of paper change one’s life?

A piece of paper didn’t change my life, at least it hasn’t yet.

It’s been over a week since my last appointment, and there are still countless steps that I need to take to get back on track.

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[Source]
While I live in a world that has a ticking clock for everything, I’m a twenty year old woman and I have to remind myself that I have time to figure everything out. It’s a world that define’s ones worth by their productivity, I hope to be patient as I work through habits built over a lifetime, and to know that, for know, its okay to just be okay. 

I also have to remind myself that the diagnosis isn’t an excuse, and it doesn’t define me. It’s just a part of me, small but impactful on myself and other people in my life.

But I’ll just end for now by saying this: If you feel as though there is a barricade blocking you from the life you want to live, look into it no matter what it maybe. And for others, listen to them, and don’t invalidate the barricade’s existence.

~P.S. If you, or someone you know, has experienced similar things, here’s a link with more information ~

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Sex, Tinder, & 90s Sitcoms

Recently, I was intrigued by the golden age of television, and the era of the 90s sitcom. Most notably I was fascinated by their aesthetic, from the straight-legged Mom jeans, the plaid mini skirts, to over tweezed eyebrows. To be honest, I still see remnants of that era in my own wardrobe, and I can’t even count the times I’ve referenced Jennifer Aniston’s perfect golden locks to my hairdresser. I’ve seen these trends coming back within the clothing racks of Urban Outfitters and H&M, but what I presume will never go back in style is the way they went about dating.

Born in 96, my memories of that era are only fragments from having to dial up my home computer and listening to the Spice Girls on my walkman. The only real window to dating in that world was through shows like Friends, Seinfeld, and even Boy Meets World, and because I grew up with those shows, I expected that my life would replicate those images on screen. One solid group of friends that meets at the same cafe everyday, a steady career right out college, and maybe even marrying my high school sweetheart.

The genesis of Tinder was in 2012, two years before I started university. I knew by then that the images on television that taught me about dating could not be applied to this new reality. By then, it was no longer uncommon or looked down upon to have accounts on OkCupid or Plenty of Fish. In fact, that seemed to be the main way people met and interacted with people they might want to fornicate with.

I don’t like Tinder. I can definitely say with confidence after having an account off and on for just over two years. While I know people who have fulfilling relationships and adventurous sexual escapades, it has just become incredibly tedious to me.

However, what is the 90s sitcom equivalent? Would it be when Joey from Friends flirted his way with a girl in a public space to get her phone number? To which, later he would come home from work, pick up his curly-wired telephone phone receiver, and call her up. Assuming that she gave him the correct digits, the cute girl answers. There they would have to have a pleasant conversation that would usually lead to a nice dinner, and the cute girl, feeling obliged since he put his card down on the table to pay, would have sex with him.

Now, you swipe, you talk, and you meet up, and yeah.. The rest is history.

It’s like dating is the same puzzle, but with pieces rearranged. All first encounters are online, but people just want to see a similar picture in the end.

20th century dating is strategic, and I was able to understand it for the most part. I was able to select the right selfies and group photos that would enable a butt load of matches and superlikes on Tinder. In my first year, I took it too seriously, getting caught in the web of guys who saw me as disposable as my profile on the site.

But, I grew, and I learned to hold my own ground. It got to this point where I just kept swiping and swiping, thumbing through pictures of guys while barely looking at their name or age, and getting a rush to my ego whenever they already liked me and feeling temporarily disappointed when they didn’t. It was a game – like Candy Crush or Temple Run – and just a way to pass my time in bored moments with no actual thought to what it could lead to.

It started making me question why I couldn’t find someone, out of the hundreds of people who swipe on Tinder, there ought to be a perfect fit for me, right? Except, I haven’t actually formally dated anyone, or have been able to call someone my partner. Thanks to Tinder, I’ve had “things”, which have been extremely casual and not worthy of introducing to my parents; so after a while it just stops either due to our busy schedules or sudden lack of interest.

I’ve fallen into this growing category of millennial who have been single their whole lives. That makes us believe that there must be something off kilter, and that it can probably be found within ourselves.

This mentality used to plague me for a little while. But then, over the last two years, I realized that I actually haven’t been actively searching for anyone. I’ve been content growing and living on my own, finding fulfillment through many amazing friendships.

The whole “men are from Mars and women are from Venus” rhetoric is definitely not as apparent. Far more frequently, I message them first. I’ve offered to pay for my dinner, despite it being turned down almost every time. And in no way do I ever feel obliged to do anything I don’t want to do.

It reminded me of the first episode of Friends, and how the writers were hesitant to write a pilot where one of the main female characters, Rachel, forgets the name of the man she hooked up with the night before. They didn’t want her to be perceived as promiscuous. Now we literally have shows like Broad City, where the two female leads, Ilana and Abbi, openly talk about their sexualities like its the weather.

So, I think that’s where the main difference lies. It’s not just the way we go about dating, and the means to which we meet people, it’s that the social norms that came along with dating then have slowly melted away. Society is more open with everything, including sex, and I prefer it that way.

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If someone asked me what era I would rather date in, I definitely would say today. While there are flaws in our current era of Tinder and casual sex, there’s flaws with every era. I’d rather be dating in the time where, to be a women and to be sexual, aren’t as negatively co-existing concepts. And, I’d rather on my iPhone restlessly waiting for a reply, than the landline, because well, at least I can see if they’ve read it, right?