Father’s day thoughts

Dear Dad,

I have ADHD and I think you probably did too. I wish we had the chance to come to this realisation together. I imagine it would have felt just as liberating for you as it has for me. I often think about the conversations we would have shared as we joined the lines between the memories of our scattered past.

I found one of your old notebooks today with a list of tasks and random thoughts jotted down in a way which probably wouldn’t make much sense to anyone else. I pulled up a recent note on my phone, and whilst I’m not planning to build a flintlock pistol, check out horse endurance racing or (learn massage!?), I was comforted by the fact I write lists in the same way. I imagine you probably never looked at that list again after you had finished writing. I know I never look at my lists again either, but it helps to get those thoughts down.

I wish we had the chance to explore our shared passions and ever fleeting hobbies and interests together. You’ll be pleased to know I’m still just as passionate about History. At the moment I’m fixated on WW2 documentaries and reading memoirs from the Cold War.

A few weeks ago I went to Belmont Abbey and remembered how we used to walk through graveyards looking for interesting names to write down, so we could then search their origin when we got home. Definitely more of a niche interest.. but I loved spending that time with you.

I know you tried so hard when I was growing up to get me to stick at something. You would wake me up at 6am and take me running despite the protest and tears. You took me to rugby and came to watch all of my football games at school despite the fact I could barely kick a ball without falling over. You fought with me every Saturday to get me to go horse riding with you, the only sport I ever showed any talent in. I’ll never forget coming home one day when I was 12 or 13, to be called into the living room only for you to jump out holding a brand new electric guitar. I’ll never stop feeling guilty for quitting a few months later. I know how embarrassed you were to have to visit my teacher and quit on my behalf. I promised you this time I would stick at it. I’m sorry Dad.

Despite my many failures you would still greet each new hobby with the same level of enthusiasm and support. Maybe it was because deep down you knew you were the same. Growing up I watched your ever changing hobbies and interests with great curiosity. Motor bikes, boats, fishing, classic cars, making weapons, bonsai,birds, horse riding and antique restoration just to name a few. In fact when I pulled up my note, somewhere on the list it said ‘fix film camera’. I found your old Cannon A-1 and I’m currently trying to repair it. I imagine you used it once or twice only for it to be quickly shelved with the rest of your trinkets — remnants of another hobby which didn’t quite make it. You’ll be glad to know photography is a hobby I’ve stuck with for years now and I’ll be thinking of you when I use your camera.

I know you craved novel experiences and new environments just as I do and you would often tell me about the adventures you were planning for when you got better. It breaks my heart to think at some point you had to face the relisation that they would never come to fruition. I want you to know that I have tried my best to live out your dreams for you. I have lived in seven countries and travelled a great deal of the world, including Japan where I lived for four years. I know how much you loved Japanese culture and history. You promised me when I turned 18 that you, me and Uncle Bob would go together for my birthday. Who’d have thought neither of you would be here when that day finally came around. On your birthday in 2017 I spread some of your ashes at a small temple in Yamagata where I used to go when I needed time with my thoughts. It’s such a peaceful place and the trees are spectacular in the cherry blossom season. I hope you find peace there too.

The older I get the more I see myself in you. I remember just how frustrated and anxious you’d get before going away on holiday. I have a clear image of you sat on the stairs before one trip in protest, pissed off because we were supposed to have left already and I was still running around the house in a towel trying to pack my things which were undoubtedly scattered all over the house. As an adult I am very much the same. Anxious and stressed before travel and absolutely hate waiting for others.

One of your greatest strengths was your ability to understand others and adapt to the environment around you. You always emphasised the importance of this skill and you’ll be glad to know it’s a skill I also share. Although unfortunately I’m not as universally well liked as you were.

I also share your ability to problem solve and come up with creative solutions that often others can’t see. Last week at work I developed a strategy to help a stroke patient read on my lunch break, something which the other therapists had been trying to solve for weeks. The sense of satisfaction I felt watching this man read a full page for the first time since his stroke was indescribable. I teared up when he told me he’d hope to meet someone like me when he moves to his next setting. You would have been his age.

Despite the hard exterior you would often present to people around you, I know that deep down you were very sensitive and feared rejection just as I do. It’s probably the hardest part of having ADHD — the constant fear that people see you in a negative light and that you are never quite good enough. I’m so grateful that I’ve had the opportunity to be diagnosed. Over the last few years I have learnt so much about myself and have been making improvements in areas I never thought I’d see progress in. More importantly I have been able to make sense of my past and find forgiveness for the angsty, emotional teen who found life so difficult. I hope you have forgiven him too. Life is still difficult but I would never change who I am. ADHD is, in many ways, my greatest weakness but also my greatest strength, and perhaps I owe that to you.

Like father, like son.