After the psychiatry session today, I sat in my car for a good twenty minutes before leaving. I felt acutely anxious in a way I hadn’t expected to feel.

Nothing has changed since before the session. Or a month ago. Or a year. Yet, I had a feeling of failure, as if I had suddenly found a solution to my problems and then not been good enough to obtain it.

I’m not upset with the doctor. She’s just doing her job; if I don’t match the symptoms then I don’t match the symptoms. I worry that I didn’t tell her my real symptoms, though.

Am I anxious? I don’t know, really. I said “no” in the session because I tend to work better under stress. I like the crunch time feeling of knowing I don’t get to go home until the emergency is over. I do well because I can stay calm when the pressure is on.

Does that mean I’m not anxious?

When I don’t have work, I worry that I’m not getting anything done. The saying “If you want to get something done, ask a busy person” seems to apply in the reverse to me as well. At some point, “relaxing after a difficult project at work” becomes “spend all day wasting time on the internet, resenting myself for not being productive.”

During these periods, which are worse the longer I don’t have work, I describe myself as being in a funk. I don’t describe myself as anxious because to me anxiety has to do with the future. I’m upset with my behavior in the past but always confident I can fix things before they become too adverse in the future. Or, I’m usually confident. If I fret, I try and calm myself down and tell myself to start again tomorrow. Tomorrow will be better.

I wonder how often I lie to myself. I’m sure it’s a lot, but I wonder whether or not it’s more than other people. Or if it’s bad.

In therapy, I think I’ve been doing it wrong. I’ve been presenting the “public face.” The one that says Everything is just fine, but thanks for asking. If I have any problems, I’m sure they’re minor and not worth your time. Well, maybe, barely worth your time, if it’s not too much of a bother. But only if you have nothing better to do.

I have a hard time admitting that maybe I haven’t been performing adequately. Maybe it’s not just “not meeting my potential,” which I’m sure even Olympic athletes feel. Maybe I’ve actually screwed up a few times. Or more.

Co-workers accept “I’ve been too busy” as an excuse and don’t ask questions. We are busy. I’m busy. Mostly. I don’t tell them that I did plan on working on their problem, or that certification, or checking in with their client. I did plan on it, but then I dreaded it or couldn’t focus on it for intervals longer than 30 seconds at a time and eventually I procrastinated it away.

As I’m writing all this down, there are two certifications I should be studying for. There’s a piece of a project that needs to get done, that I’ve been putting off for almost a month. It would take two hours of concentration. That’s it. And there’s a whole list of tiny pieces I should get done so that things run smoother in the future.

I’m not lying when I say I’ve been successful, or that my work is happy with me. But I’ve also not held up my end of the bargain at times. It might not really matter, or maybe I’ve made up for it in other ways, but they’re still failures. And they bother me.

I don’t know if I fit the symptoms of Attention Deficit Disorder. I don’t want to study the criteria on my own because I know how good the human brain is at tricking itself. A straight diagnosis would mean that I’m not out of luck. That I don’t have to struggle on my own. But if it’s not a straight diagnosis, then using the treatment for that diagnosis might not help.

It’s strange. I feel much more in turmoil since I started therapy than I ever did before. Well, maybe. It’s hard to be sure, since the present always feels the strongest.

Either way, none of my symptoms are new. I dealt with them my entire life and maybe recently they’ve gotten bad enough for me to confront them. Or maybe starting therapy was a whim to try something new. I’m not sure anymore, because I’ve told myself both answers to the question “Why did I start therapy?”

I do know that I’d like a solution to my problems. They aren’t as bad as some, but they’re mine. I can’t describe the giddy excitement I felt when I was told my problems were commonplace and a simple medication – taken as needed and not on a regular, personality-altering schedule, could fix them. Nor the vague, crushing disappointment, accusatory anger or feelings of anxiety and failure when I was told I probably didn’t qualify for what my subconscious had dubbed a miracle cure.

I know my feelings were misplaced. I shouldn’t feel happy that I need a drug to act normally. I know that no drug is a “miracle cure” and I definitely shouldn’t blame a doctor for not pushing drugs. I grew up with the idea that ADD was a fabrication of the pharmaceutical companies to sell drugs. Weird that now I’m disappointed by a diagnosis against it.

I hope I can be more honest about my feelings in the future. It’s hard to let down guards. To expose your own faults, when the whole world is expecting you to sell yourself. Pad your resume. Say good things about yourself, because no one will do it for you. Hell, people will believe what you say about yourself, just because our brains are suggestible.

Anyways, I have flaws. Maybe trouble concentrating is a side-effect and not the root cause. Maybe I have a thyroid imbalance and I’ve fooled myself into faking it. Maybe I’m perfectly normal. Maybe everyone has these issues and I’m the only one trying to fix the human condition and expect unreasonable things from myself.

Whatever it is, I’d like help. It’s holding me back.