i can do anything, except self care

and other humiliations of adhd

After unexpectedly spending the best part of a year and a half living with my parents again in my mid-twenties, fending for myself once more has been jarring. Before you make assumptions: no, I’m not a spoiled teenager–adult.

I moved out of my rural English hometown to London at 18. Since then, I’ve been managing my own money (somewhat poorly), working full-time, paying rent, covering bills, and shopping and cooking for myself for the best part of a decade. So returning to the family nest was, at first, a shock.

What do you mean you want to eat dinner together at 7 p.m. on the dot every day? What do you mean, I’m hanging up my laundry incorrectly? What do you mean you don’t go out after work, ever, on a weekday?

It was a reverse culture shock.

But it had its perks.

I have ADHD, and one of my biggest struggles is the never-ending churn of life admin. I get it done, but often at the expense of self-care. I’ll remember to pay my rent, but I’ll end up wearing a bikini as underwear because my laundry is still damp in the machine after being washed — and forgotten — three times in a week. Embarrassing, yes. But moving back in with my parents instantly eased that psychological load.

My mum, possibly the most organised woman I’ve ever met, has a system for everything. She does the weekly shop at the same time every week, immediately after her run, bath, and Saturday morning deep clean. She eats the same breakfast every day, optimised for health. She sets alarms for chores and never forgets a birthday card. It’s impressive.

I am the opposite.

Without asking, she began absorbing my domestic labour. She hung out my damp T-shirts when the sun cut through the British grey skies. I was the resident chef, but she made sure the fridge was stocked. She reminded me to open letters from the bank and return my trainers to their rightful place on the shoe shelf. Racked with guilt, I became acutely aware that I was adding to her already full schedule.

Despite this, I still consider myself hyper-independent. At the end of last year, I moved to Mexico alone, knowing nobody, armed with only a backpack and my iPhone. I can navigate a foreign metro, learn an entirely new language, find somewhere to live, a job and make new friends. Totally unphased.

But I can’t feed myself.

It’s my biggest problem — made more ironic by living in a country renowned for its food. I can’t cook my usual staples because the ingredients are either expensive or hard to find (I’m not paying £5 for feta). Food shopping, walking across the neighbourhood and carrying groceries home become overwhelming. I must caveat that despite having a history of disordered eating, I love food. I love cooking, it’s one of my favourite pastimes. However, since arriving in Mexico, the various steps that require me to have a normal cooking routine feel monumentally difficult. So I don’t do it. I have no food in the flat. I forget to eat.

I find myself on the verge of passing out at 3 pm, having neither drunk water nor taken a bite all day. I didn’t realise how much shame I carried around this until a friend pointed it out.

@by.beccamaepan haul!!! I nipped to the local panadería for some sweet treats ahead of christmas tomorrow — and also picked up some freshly baked bread while I was at it proving a point (ahem, Richard hart) that mexico has delicious baked goods. #panaderia #food #mexicobread #travel

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For context, the first time I met him, I fainted in the middle of a trendy club in Roma. Naturally, the only thing I’d eaten all day was a single stale tortilla from the back of my fridge. As I groggily came round, humiliated and confused, I realised I’d been laid out on a bench by the bouncers, who were now firing questions at me in rapid Spanish. The guy I’d just met stood over me, worry etched across his face, all the more mortifying because I thought he was incredibly handsome and had been flirtatiously trying to make a good first impression.

Recently, after hugging me, he asked why I was always shaking (and why I’d passed out, stone-cold sober, in a packed club). I confessed my ADHD shame: my inability to do laundry, eat on a normal schedule, or keep my living spaces clean.

He looked me dead in the eye and said, “There’s nothing wrong with asking for help. Tell your mum. I do it all the time.”

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