I’m Sorry for Being So Sorry at You
I say I’m sorry a lot.
I say I’m sorry when I interrupt (and I interrupt a lot).
I say I’m sorry when I make an inappropriate comment (and I make inappropriate comments a lot).
I say I’m sorry when I make a careless mistake (and I make careless mistakes a lot).
I say I’m sorry when I accidentally insult somebody (and I accidentally insult people a lot).

For a long time, I assumed it was due to deep-seated Catholic guilt. But the more I read about the experience of others with ADHD, the more I realize how pathological my apologies have become.
And no wonder people with ADHD are always apologizing. I refer once more to Dr. Hallowell’s list of 128 ADHD questions:
38. Are you more prone than the average person to make careless mistakes?
45. Do other people comment on how hard it is to get you to stay focused on what they want you to stay focused on, even when you want to focus on that as well?
86. Do you often offend people without meaning to?
87. Is your own humor sometimes mistaken for an insult?
And there are so many more that I can add from personal experience, including:
129. Do people often ask you to talk quieter when you’re discussing a subject that fascinates you?
130. Do you frequently blurt out things you’ve been asked not to blurt out when you don’t mean to blurt them out?
131. Have you made rash and poorly-considered choices that can negatively affect others? And then did it again?
132. Are you the source of more than your fair share of awkward silences?
For me, apologies are my pathetic attempt at mopping up the messes I make as I stomp through life like Godzilla on his way to the grocery store.

And let’s face it, for most people apologies stop meaning something after the 50th mistake, the 50th blurt, the 50th unintentionally-backhanded compliment.
But I keep trying to apologize my way out of being seen as a f#$%-up.
Then there’s this kind of sorry:
The worst part of having a temper is knowing when you’ve used it unfairly or unjustly. I grew up with a dad whose temper often came to blows with my own in knockdown, drag-out screaming matches over stuff that didn’t even really matter in the end. I don’t remember the subject, I only remember the decibels.
Having experienced the brunt end of a temper, I vowed to control mine better as a parent and, for the most part, I’ve been fairly successful. There have certainly been some yelling matches over the years, but in general I do a better job of not getting baited into a screaming match.
I also rely on punishments (internet access is highly prized) rather than screaming. Veronica jokingly calls me a hard-ass because of it, but I’d rather be the dad who cuts off internet supply than the dad who tries screaming his independent children into obedience.

But there have been a handful of times when I’ve been tired or stressed or worried, and therefore depleted of the willpower reserves necessary to keep my temper in check. That’s when I’m most vulnerable to exploding when pushed.
And after the explosion, I immediately know that I need to apologize. In the examples from the first section, I’m usually oblivious until it’s obvious that another person is taken aback by whatever it was I did or said. I often don’t realize I’m crossing a line until I get a look from someone that tells me I just flew past it.
Being able to admit when I mess up has become necessary for self-preservation, but it requires a frank self-assessment, which can be ugly when I’m honest. This makes it harder to apologize after losing my temper because it’s a personal failure. But I‘m also starting to realize that my temper is exacerbated by the impulsivity of ADHD. To stay on top of this, I’ve got to push back against nature and nurture.

It’s like I’ve been tasked with caring for a lion on a leash. I didn’t choose this lion, it was bestowed upon me and now it’s my job to keep it from eating the faces off of other people.
And for the most part, I’ve got it under control 98% of the time. But it just takes that one slip-up after a bad night’s sleep or a bad day at work or a bad fight, and then the lion gets loose and people’s faces are being eaten.
That’s when the apology becomes necessary and vital, rather than defensive. And when I’ve lost my temper with my kids, it hasn’t take me long to apologize … usually moments after I’ve cooled down.

When I lose my temper with other adults, it depends on a few variables. Was I unjustifiably angry? I’ll apologize immediately. Was I justifiably angry, but over-reacted? I’ll apologize fairly quickly. Was I justifiably angry and reacted appropriately? It may take me a while to apologize for that one, but I frequently do simply to make peace.
Remember when I confronted Todd in front of a bunch of kids? He came up to me the next night and apologized profusely for what he did. I did not apologize back. I won’t.
I did apologize to Tina.
With so many reasons to apologize, I often find myself reflexively apologizing for things that have nothing to do with me.
“I’m sorry your flight got cancelled.”
“I’m sorry you stubbed your toe.”
“I’m sorry your mailman stole your heirloom tomato seeds.”
People point out to me all the time that I apologize for stuff that had nothing to do with me. Rationally, I know I don’t need to apologize when you tell me you missed the bus. I mean, yeah, I feel sorry for you, but I have no reason to be sorry.
It’s a strange verbal habit that I’m completely aware of and completely unable to control. If I feel sorry for you, then “I’m sorry.” Given how often it’s been pointed out to me, I guess this isn’t something “normal” people do.
For me, at least, ADHD has been a disorder of many apologies. I periodically find myself unintentionally disrupting normalcy and feel compelled to atone for it so I’m not completely banished from polite society.
But sometimes I want to push back against the normalcy and assert myself unapologetically. Just once, I’d like to see that scandalized look and respond “I’m not sorry.”

