“Permission to speak freely?” my sister asks.
“Granted.”
“You tend to operate in one of two speeds. There’s typical Pat, which is high speed, high happy, and extremely high energy.”
“Okay …”
“For the record, I love that about you. As someone who is not built that way, it’s refreshing. Maybe even a little endearing.” Harper bumps me with her shoulder. I bump back a little harder, and she smiles. “Your other speed isn’t really a speed at all. When you hit something hard, you crash. There is no slowing down, just a sudden stop, and then it’s like you exist in this dark pit.”
“Would you call it a pit of despair?”
“I would. And it even comes equipped with the Machine, designed to suck years from your lifespan.”
I can’t help but smile. “Look at you with the Princess Bride references. It’s depressing as all get-out, but I appreciate the effort.” I pause, watching Smoky chase his own tail before rolling around in the dewy grass. “Do you really think I do that?”
“Do you think you do that?”
I’d love to say no. Only … I can’t. I’ve been in that pit since yesterday, so it’s very hard to argue with Harper’s assessment.
“Maybe. Yeah, okay. Sure.”
“I’ve done some basic research about ADHD, and sometimes it can bring with it very high highs and very low lows. They talk about it like being flooded with emotions. I think yesterday was intensely emotional for you and for Lindy. You got flooded, and you couldn’t hold it back. Does that sound at all like your experience?”
When did my baby sister get so smart? That’s what I want to know. And she’s researching ADHD? For me?
I’ll admit—I only did a tiny bit of googling when she told us about being autistic and her sensory processing stuff. My sister is just Harper. Completely herself. And after the third webpage trying to define her for me, I gave it up. I didn’t need a manual to understand her. Knowing what a diagnosis said didn’t change who she was. Other than being a little more sensitive when she tells me things （like about hating the smell of cigars）， I didn’t see the need to overanalyze.
So, why would I do that for myself? Every third person these days seems to have some kind of ADHD. It’s something I can know about myself, but as an adult, it doesn’t have an impact on my daily life.
Does it?
“Flooding is a good description,” I confess. “But it’s not because of the ADHD. It’s just me.”
Harper rolls her eyes. “Fine then. It’s because of you.”
I lift my hands, trying to maintain a serious face. “Hey—don’t blame me. It’s the ADHD.”
Grinning, Harper looks up at me. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m not impossible. My ADHD, on the other hand, is—”
“Don’t say it.” She laughs, shaking her head. “You know it doesn’t really matter, right? And you’ll never be able to separate the two things? You are you. You have ADHD. Personality, brain function—who knows. It might help to look up some of this stuff, just to see what you might struggle with or what some workarounds are.” She waves a hand. “Whatever the reason, the result is the same. If you get emotionally overwhelmed, those feelings build up and spill over. Then, you crash. You did that yesterday. You’re doing it now.”
My sister is so right. About all the things. And just talking about this, recognizing it, I feel lighter. As the sun crests over the trees and houses in the distance, hope emerges in my chest. I’ve messed up, but this isn’t the end. I’m not going to stay in this pit.