A friend told a friend, “That’s not ADHD. That’s weakness.” It hurt.
Weakness isn’t like a bowling ball. “There’s my green bowling ball.” Weakness is a comparison.
I could go to the gym, stack some weights, and do an exercise movement. “I did 90 pounds.” That’s a number. That’s not weakness.
I’m a man. If I told another man, both of us would get a little more awake. Feelings. Comparison. With a good friend, some teasing and competition. With a stranger, maybe some shame. From an enemy, taunts, or a back-down, depending on which exercise I did with 90 pounds and my overall appearance.
Like another friend says about her age, “It’s just a number, and mine’s unlisted.” (There used to be a big fine print softbound book with all the city’s telephone numbers, and…never mind). Numbers are easy to compare and that can be useful. That 90 compared to 80 last week means my physical therapy is working. Or maybe 90 tells me that I cannot perform that job task safely by myself. Even comparison with another person or a goal I’ve set can be useful. 90 is less than 100, and that might stir up motivation to go back to the gym and get stronger, and I like the sound of that.
“That’s not ADHD. That’s weakness.” The feelings well up.
Slow down. Chin up. How weak is weakness? There’s no number. And weak compared to what? Who chooses the standard? What’s the crime, the verdict, and the sentence?
The same friend says that human will power is limitless. No it isn’t. “Fatigue makes cowards of us all,” say George Patton and Vince Lombardi, and they knew something about willpower and motivation.
More to come.