dThere is something worse here than pure incompetence, and that is the next level of incompetence: when your incompetence begins to manifest itself. It's a dangerous place. It's not just feeling depressed, it's like feeling depressed about being depressed or worrying about being worried. The next level of incompetence is when you become so aware of your incompetence that you begin to doubt everything you do (with good reason) and essentially blame yourself for things that are not your fault. And it can cause more confusion.
Case in point: Two Wednesdays ago I was at the Cheltenham Literary Festival to interview English football legend Geoff Hurst about his new book, Last Boy of 66. On Monday, being the consummate professional I am, I thought I'd read the book. But I couldn't find the book anywhere in my apartment. Where did I put it? Apparently it's a very safe place, I can't find it now.
All day I searched under beds, on top of closets, in backpacks, suitcases and drawers. All his books were destroyed from the shelves by the unfortunate blows of my hand. When night came, I decided to continue my search with the first light of day. On Tuesday morning, help from her now-exhausted loved ones was still nowhere to be found. Yes, I could read the PDF, but I needed the actual book to make notes and such. I apologized and begged the publisher to send me another copy. They admitted it, although they also apologized for posting so late. That? You mean I didn't have this book in the first place?
This is what the next level of incompetence looks like. Accustomed to losing things, I was sure I would lose something that was not in my power. The motorcycle came with a copy of the book and another with the mail. Another unnecessary 24-hour neurosis ended. I've been like this for days want ball up; I can't do the same when I haven't done anything wrong.
One would have thought that the transition from common or garden-variety incompetence to this terrible new state would be gradual. But it happened to me suddenly, with three examples in a week.
I've had non-catastrophic disasters on both sides of not losing the last man (if you'll excuse the unforgivable irony): my ADHD medication. My pills are nowhere to be found. I left the new bottle somewhere and can't find it. I frantically rummaged through boxes and medicine bottles, tossing them into the air as if in a ridiculous juggling act, in which objects were thrown but not caught.
Again, loved ones were pressured to join the search. My sister-in-law, who is a doctor, came over the weekend and spent a lot of time looking for my pills. Not happy. I gave up. In agony, I asked my doctor for another prescription. No problem, he explained, and he never sent them in the first place. Then after receiving them, I visited them the following weekend and, to my utter dismay, I hadn't packed them. It's been a long weekend and not in a good way. Later, when I packed my bags to go home, I brought them with me, but inexplicably stuffed them into my running shoes. Excited, yet frustrated, I quickly stole one, so late in the day that, as a result, I couldn't sleep a wink that night.
Is it all due to ADHD? I don't know. Some of my loved ones allow my neurotic diversity and give me a pass. Others take me for a buffoon. I sympathize with both points of view, but basically I don't know what to think. I know for a fact, it is absolutely exhausting for everyone involved.
