Dancing with ADHD: A Memoir of Chaos and Creativity

Living with a - self diagnosed yet regected by a psychiatrist - ADHD often feels like being caught in a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions—an exhausting dance where I rarely get to lead. Each day is a new chapter in this chaotic narrative, and I find myself aligning with almost every symptom described in the textbooks.

Take my tendency to dive headfirst into a rabbit hole, for instance. I can’t count the number of times I’ve set out to complete a simple task, only to forget it entirely while chasing an unrelated thought. My long-term memory is weak, and distractions are abundant. It’s as if my brain has a hundred tabs open at once, each screaming for attention. After hours of thinking and planning, I’m left physically and mentally drained—exhausted by the sheer weight of my own ideas.

Then there’s the constant search for excitement, for dopamine, for something—anything—to keep the fire burning. Sticking to one thing for more than 30 minutes feels like climbing a mountain. Physical exercise helps, quieting the rush in my mind, but the calm is fleeting. When the excitement of a new idea hits, it’s like a thunderstorm: thrilling, overwhelming, and often leaving behind a headache.

My life is a series of unstarted projects and half-explored passions. I generate ideas at a insane pace, but execution? That’s where it all falls apart. Instead, I plan and plan and plan—plans drawn in sand, washed away before they can take shape.

Voices in the Whirlwind

Over the years, the people in my life have become part of this narrative, each offering their own perspective on my restless nature.

Karim Abd El-Halim once said, “You just can’t start a new idea every five minutes.” He didn’t know that the very act of sticking to one thing feels like trying to hold onto smoke.

Ahmed Teir is often amused by my enthusiasm: “What’s fascinating is the excitement in your voice when you talk about a new idea—an idea you’ve already told me about with the same excitement, as if it’s the first time.”

My mom, as well, has her own refrain: “Can’t you just sit down?!” But how do you explain to someone that sitting still feels itchy?

Even casual acquaintances pick up on my energy. Armia asked once, “Are you always in a hurry?!” Yes, Armia, I am. Not because I need to be somewhere, but because my mind demands it.

During a meeting, Rehab noticed me nervously tearing a piece of toilet paper into tiny shreds. “You’ve been shaking your legs and tearing that paper the whole time,” she said. It wasn’t nervousness, though—it was simply my body mirroring the chaos in my mind.

Not to mention the Parking Lot Encounter. I’ve always been a paradox of anxiety and preparedness, and nowhere is this more evident than my habit of arriving excessively early for things—like six hours early. Abd El-Rahman Saleh once joked, “Tarek goes down six hours before the lecture just to find a parking lot. Then he parks his car two hours before the lecture begins so he can feel calm.”

It’s absurd when you think about it. Who needs six hours to find a parking spot? But for me, the chaos inside my head demands external order. If I can control the parking situation, then maybe—just maybe—I can start the day feeling less rushed. Of course, the irony is that this obsessive need for calm often leaves me feeling anything but.

By the time the lecture starts, my mental energy has already been drained. I’ve gone through multiple worst-case scenarios in my head, rehearsed contingencies, and scanned every possible detail of the parking lot like a battlefield strategist. It’s not about logic—it’s about creating pockets of control in a mind that feels anything but controlled.

And so, while others arrive just on time, breezing into the lecture hall with a coffee in hand, I sit there exhausted, parked and ready, wondering if this is what calm is supposed to feel like.

The Cost of Constant Motion

This relentless energy isn’t without its consequences. My career trajectory could be a case study in unpredictability. Abo Safi sums it up best, he said something along the lines of: “Tarek is a weird, chaotic person—graduated from Mechanical Engineering, became a graphic designer, and now works in a solar energy company as a business developer!”

I’ve switched careers more times than I care to admit—sometimes twice a week, occasionally twice a day. It’s not an exaggeration; it’s just how my mind operates. One moment, I’m convinced I’ve found my life’s purpose, and the next, I’m chasing another fleeting inspiration.

Patience, people tell me, is the antidote. Zeina pleads, “Have some patience, please!”. And Zahran, baffled by my urgency, exclaimed, “OMG, have some patience! You’ll sign the contract—you’re in such a hurry!”

A Chaotic Kind of Grace

once before in a shopping mall I had to scratch a paper so I might win something from the appliances. The Salesperson, who jokingly offered me scratch paper to calm down: “I might even let you scratch me if that’ll give you some patience!”

Writing in Motion

As I sit here crafting this post, editing grammar mistakes, and fine-tuning phrases with the help of ChatGPT, I can’t seem to stop shaking my legs. It’s as if my body can’t tolerate stillness, needing to match the endless rhythm of my thoughts.

Every now and then, I catch myself covering one eye, leaving the other half-open, squinting to read what’s being written.

The Daily Rollercoaster

By 1:00 PM, my energy is gone. The morning rush of productivity and ideas leaves me utterly drained, like a squeezed-out sponge. I crave an escape, and the frequent refuge I seek is sleep. By this point, phone calls are impossible, and responding to anything on demand feels like weight lifting. If the morning passes without any accomplishment, the rest of the day spirals into a pit of self-blame and regret. I blame myself for not sticking to just one task, for failing to achieve even a small victory.

Come nightfall, around 10:00 PM, the exhaustion is complete—mental, physical, emotional. I sit there, feeling entirely disconnected from the passions that usually drive me. In those moments, I fantasize about leading a simpler life, doing one small, straightforward job that keeps my sanity intact. It’s a fleeting sense close to zuhd—a detachment from passion I once held dear.

But then comes the morning. A fresh surge of energy breathes life into me, and with it, my passions spring back to life as if they’d just been hibernating. It’s like ants pouring out of their burrows after the rain—unstoppable, overwhelming. I’m exhilarated by the prospect of learning new skills, diving into my projects, and chasing dreams.

Yet, almost as quickly as the energy comes, it leads me straight into the familiar rabbit hole. I open my computer, intending to start, but end up lost in a maze of distractions. By the time I emerge, the day has already slipped away.

As I write this, my brain feels heavy, like it’s carrying the weight of a foggy cloud. There’s pressure, a dull ache, and thoughts are stuck in traffic. I pause to recognize what my body is telling me: I need sugar. It’s strange how something as simple as that can feel like the solution to this moment of chaos.