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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The first time I can remember finding enjoyment in my disdain for minor incidents was caused by medically induced anxiety. You see I was “diagnosed” with ADD when I was ten years old. I use the term diagnosed loosely because it doesn’t take a rocket scientist, or a doctor for that matter, to figure out that I view the world with a certain… je ne sais quoi. 


I remember one week of school in fifth grade where I took a different pill every day of the week to see which ones “worked” to “cure” my ADD. This is my earliest memory of a blackout. After finding the speed, camouflaged as “medicine,” that worked for me I started focusing in school and achieving good grades with more ease. Before you become outraged over a fifth grader taking drugs to pay attention in class, this was socially acceptable in the 2000's when it came to dealing with kids like me. I would also like to point out that I do not think I would have managed successfully going through the public school system without them. Not to mention, this took place long before the Adderall craze of today.


Over a period of eleven years, yes ELEVEN years, I took ADD medication which built a solid foundation of recurring anxiety earthquakes. Little things began to infuriate me on these meds. My ADD would hyper-focus while I was on these drugs, and I would be driven mad by insignificance. It seemed only when I had this buzzing anxiousness inside would the innocent doings of others enraged me.


“What time is it?” Yeah, that was it. That was the first episode of exasperation. Rigidly, I would provide the time. God forbid someone interrupts what I was trying to concentrate on. I wouldn’t dare say what I was thinking, but it would go something like this.


There’s a clock on the computer. There’s a clock on the wall. There’s a clock on the phone. Most rooms have a clock somewhere in them. Why, on this holy earth, do you not possess the intellectual capacity to answer this question on your own?


There are some of you who will relate to this on a deep level. Don't worry, I know there are others who think I’m neurotic and borderline insane. In the beginning it was drug inspired, and now that I don’t take the stuff anymore it’s just something I do for sport. A healthy level of neurosis feels like a stiff glass of a fine whiskey. After a long day, that burn in your throat feels pretty damn good.

About the Author: About Me
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