I could have been a billionaire but my brain got in the way

God, I’m expensive. Not in a chic way. Not even in a distasteful bourgeois way. I’m not talking about my skincare regimen, my mortgage, my Afterpay balance, or the little indulgences that make life worth living. I mean that the cost of being me — as I am, natural, unmanaged, without intervention — is egregious. Let me explain.

I accidentally fell off my ADHD medication for a little while this year. Pharmaceutical shortages, out-of-date blood tests, executive dysfunction … it all got in the way, and my prescription lapsed. I’m now back in the land of the medicated, focused and quasi-productive, and as I play catch-up with all the admin in my backlog, no matter which way I crunch the numbers, it all comes out to the same result: I just can’t afford to live without my meds.

Credit: Robin Cowcher

Recently, when I was scrolling through my transaction history looking for proof that I had paid my water bill in June, I learned two grim things: I definitely had not paid my water bill, and by forgetting to cancel my subscription before the end of the free trial period, I had bought a full year of Fitbit Premium. I don’t even know where my Fitbit is any more. I tagged the payment “ADHD tax”, and I’ve thought of little else since.

What other debts has my diagnosis racked up? Pre- and post-prescription, what else has this differently wired brain cost me?

Late payment fees and missed appointments. All the planners I’ve bought over the years, convinced a Moleskin and colourful tabs will turn me Type A overnight. All the hobbies I’ve picked up and then quickly discarded. Groceries left to rot in the fridge when a zucchini fixation has passed. Jobs I’ve lost or left over chaotic environments and rigid managers, and books I could have written and sold in a fragment of the time; my earning potential peaking and plummeting between states of hyper-focus and complete paralysis.

And what about when my dopamine dips and only an order confirmation email can pick it back up again? Were it not for all my little impulse purchases, I could be a megalomaniac billionaire by now. And then it gets harder to quantify.

More than one relationship has fizzled when my scattered brain lost its charm and became grating instead. Important texts that disappear from my immediate field of vision and go unanswered for days — it takes a very good friend to forgive that. I don’t know how to do the maths on how many feelings have been hurt by my perceived indifference, or how much love has been lost over misunderstandings.

To say nothing of my health, and its compounding interest. A cavity that could have been solved with a filling, left unattended, finally required a dental implant. My right knee sometimes crunches when I walk — how soon before I need a bionic leg? The skin check I keep forgetting to schedule; we all know the true cost of that.

And time. Time! I only recently learned that it’s not normal to open a blank document with good intentions, blink, and find that 10 hours have passed without a single word on the page. I didn’t know we weren’t all sitting around immobile and unproductive all day, waiting for an afternoon appointment. How many hours have I lost down a hyper-focus rabbit hole on some obscure topic or task, never to be called on again? Thousands? Tens of thousands?

Overdue invoices and missing receipts, bills that just keep coming and cheques I can’t cash. Is my brain still under warranty? Is it too late for a refund?

I know none of this is new or profound. I know it’s my job to find a way to manage it. A common diagnosis is no excuse for being flighty or inconsiderate, bad at my job or a mediocre friend. I know there are worse conditions and more punishing disorders, and in the scheme of things, a Fitbit Premium subscription is a wonderful problem to have. I just wish I knew how much I didn’t know earlier. I wish I’d known to ask for help.

Because I’ve lived with ADHD for a lot longer than I’ve been in treatment for it, and I had no idea how steep the incline on this uphill battle was. Sometimes, the relief granted by one little pill is heartbreaking. And with the right tools — my meds, my therapist, carefully utilised hyper-focus and a really, really nice planner — maybe I can make back all the money I’ve lost or wasted, but I’ll never get back those relationships, my perfect health, or all that time. There’s no accountant wily enough to balance all of this.

Me without my meds? It’s much too high a price.