It was 10 p.m. and Netflix rudely asked if I was still watching “Riverdale.” I clicked yes then looked at the time. My two-hour after-work break had gone quicker than I realized and my stomach began to rumble.
I walked into the kitchen planning to reach into the freezer for the half a giant bag of Pizza Rolls I had left, only to see it sitting on the counter.
Frantically, I did the math. I’d come home at 2 p.m. for lunch. I fixed a small plate but left the bag out, intending to fix more before going back to the office. But I’d fallen asleep and rushed out the door, leaving the frozen food to thaw on my counter for eight hours.
A text to my mom and a quick Google search confirmed they were to be thrown away.
Hoping to find something else easy to cook, I opened my fridge to see a grocery bag dripping red
liquid. It was a large container of strawberries I’d forgotten about that had gone well past their best by date.
Glancing among the rest of the food on the shelves, I confirmed that everything else was expired before I broke down and cried.
I grabbed the only two eggs I knew that were good (which a friend had given me for a late night cookie order) and cried as I mixed a box of brownies.
By the time the pan was in the oven, I’d started hyperventilating. I laid on my bed and texted a few friends to see who was awake. With it being a Monday night, I didn’t have any luck.
I searched for a hotline number to call, called, then hung up before they had a chance to answer. Then I cried more since the last call to a hotline I’d made had been 10 years earlier over something just as silly.
Silly: a silly word to use for this situation.
To most, it seems silly to cry over thawed pizza rolls. To me, it was so much more.
To me, it was a reminder that I can’t even do something simple like eat the food in my fridge. Even worse, I can’t throw away the food once it goes bad. Why did I avoid cleaning out my fridge? Because I already had six full bags of trash in my apartment that had accumulated while waiting to be brought to the dumpster.
How could I, at almost 26 years old, be so irresponsible? How can I claim to be an adult and be independent and be proud of the life I live when the reality is I can’t even feed myself?
When no one responded, I took matters into my own hands. I knew sleep would help. Plus, anxiety attacks are exhausting. They take so much energy you didn’t know you had to start with.
I knocked my A/C down from 74 to 68, cranked my bedroom fan up and curled under my weighted blanket and a few more fuzzy ones.
I cried through my closed eyes, sang to myself a Veggie Tales favorite and fell asleep that way. I awoke around 2 and 7 but it didn’t take long to fall asleep again.
When I woke up at 10, I knew I had to move on. I knew I had gotten past it. I knew that stuff happens and I knew crying only did so much.
ADHD is weird. I’m learning that more and more. It takes a lot from you.
And I know people have had it forever. I know there are those reading this who have known for years and have learned to adjust. But here’s the thing: I haven’t had that luxury. I’m still learning and struggling and trying to get along.
I’d like to think I’ll get home tonight and clean out my fridge but I know the chances are slim to none. I don’t know when I’ll take my trash out.
But I do know I’ve got to keep moving forward. I have to strive for progress and not perfection. And I have to get up that eighth time, no matter how much weight is on my chest.