Alone with my thoughts

My thoughts are spaghetti. I'm not a waffle tonite. I never am, but tonite I feel particularly random. That's ok. I don't have to answer to anyone right now.

Today I began counseling-finally following up on my ADD diagnosis from five years ago. The diagnosis was a relief. Today, talking about it with an impartial someone who has knowledge of it, I feel mostly hopeful with a side order of apprehension. From the start I have been 100% against medication, opting for diet and behavior modification, but it doesn't seem to work. Now faced with a choice again, I'm waning. I wonder, what if I could be normal? And in the same thread, do I want to be?

All the what-ifs are there. What if I turn into a lethargic blob on the couch? What if I sleep all the time like my friend? What if I become this really fabulously organized but totally boring person? What if I lose the creativity, the zany humor, the easy laughter? Would that be a worse me, or even me at all? What if my writing suffered? What of passion and drive? What of adventure? Am I so tired of disorganization and lack of focus and motivation that I would compromise ME to have that?

My thoughts right now are that this is a Jekkyl and Hyde decision; the birth of one is the death of the other. I may be way off base about that. If I could keep both, I would be all for it. Mostly. The side effects seem minimal, but still frightening.

Logically, I have a biological problem that calls for medical intervention. Emotionally, I don't want to deal with this right now. Spiritually, if I am fearfully and wonderfully made, maybe there's a purpose in all of this and disorganization is my thorn. Wouldn't it be funny if we got to Heaven and asked Paul what the thorn in his flesh was, and we find out he actually had a thorn?

Dramatically, I am Batman standing above the city, (even though I'm a girl) and the wind is whipping my cape all around in the darkness. I am alone there with my tortured thoughts, glaring into the night. I want to give this all away and just be normal. But maybe the world needs my brand of hero. (This makes me feel good, and these are MY thoughts, as they occur to me. In my spaghetti.)

Humor is the easiest way to deal with this right now because even alone at the keyboard, I'm not as alone as I'll be when I go to bed in a moment and dissolve in a self-piteous flood of tears. There. That's the chink in my armor: a desperate longing just to feel like I'm not a failure as a woman and mom and wife; to be like the other women with their nicely decorated clean homes and who balance their checkbooks without throwing them across the room. That longing is warring with the strong opinion (opinions being a Chenoweth family birthright)that I'm pretty ok like I am, and my friends and family love me, my husband adores me, and the rest of the world can just go on tolerating me because I'm living life my way. (Cue music...)

But I hate the exasperated looks-from people who expect more of me, who don't get why I can't just pull it together and finish this task. I hate sensing that people are tolerating me, and after the antics aren't so funny anymore, I see their frustration or disappointment. I wonder, am I too old to have this crisis?

And I just keep hearing it in my head: fearfully and wonderfully made. He knew me. Long before I was knit together in the secret place. My name is tattooed on His hand. I wouldn't get a tattoo on my hand for just anyone. Neither would He. So I must be special.

Normal. Funny. Distinct and seperate, or can they cohabitate peacefully in the same body?

Wonderfully, even.