My heart dropped as her words sank in. “It sounds like you were more focused on being understood than on the other person understanding.” That is exactly what happened. A tingling shot through my arms to the palms and guilt lanced my chest. My self-centeredness weighed heavy on my shoulders.
Background
Last summer, I started working with a new primary care doctor, and it turned out that she started her practice focused on helping people with ADHD. As we discussed my concerns and challenges, she opened my eyes to the possibility that I may have this diagnosis as well as my familiar OCD.
I have learned enough about ADHD over the past few years to know it is not merely the class clown, can’t-sit-still stereotype of my youth. Rather, it is a horribly named debilitating lack of executive function capability. As I considered the possibility, I had a glimpse of a clear mental picture. I saw long years ahead learning and applying techniques to cope with life. No glamour, little validation, annoyance rather than sympathy, filled with tedious struggle. I recognized the pit opening in my stomach. My shoulders hunching. My palms breaking into a sweat.
I was grieving.
And my compassionately sadistic therapist was thrilled.
This was the first time since we’d started working together almost seven years ago that I hadn’t been elated at a new diagnosis, according to her. In the past, I had been so desperate for validation that I delighted in a new label and for the care I thought it might bring me. This time, I recognized the mountain of work ahead.
As I began meeting with my new ADHD coach, two of the main skills we focused on were impulse control and emotional regulation. With better skills to manage my OCD, I could look back on my life and see that obsessions and compulsions were my coping mechanism to attempt impulse control. With those appropriately waning, I needed something new.
Professional implications
Home and family life have been the most affected by my mental health conditions. I’ve seen, both in my life and many others who have shared with me, that our deepest and most important relationships often bear the brunt of the struggles we face. That has long been the primary focus of my work in therapy, and things continue to get better, while always having more room for improvement.
At work, there have been a few stark instances when I have noticed the effects of my mental health poke through my professional veneer.
One such moment was in a meeting a number of years ago. As we debated the direction of our mobile app, one of my colleagues commented, “Ben, you’re sounding very black-and-white right now.” That phrase was something of a cue to me, and I instantly recognized it from all of the hours in therapy and psychoeducation at The OCD & Anxiety Treatment Center. It penetrated my swirling thoughts, and I was able to immediately take a step back, and respond, “You’re right. I absolutely get that way. Let me try and look at things again from a better place.” Normally, I would have marshaled more arguments and increased in intensity as I made my case. Even in the moment, I recognized a significant win as the tone of the conversation shifted. We began to collaborate toward a better solution.
Another moment came recently in a work discussion. Someone shared, “It seems that you expect flexibility from everyone else, but are not willing to be flexible yourself. You want to break the work into smaller slices, but insist the slices are exactly what you want them to be.” Again, the term inflexibility immediately penetrated my mind. Therapy has taught me that insight is often the first casualty when I become symptomatic. I responded with, “I definitely get rigid at times. I thought I was being flexible, and I really appreciate you calling out that I was communicating the opposite.” Often I describe my idea with a new metaphor and silently applaud my “flexible” approach. I have a habit of seeing one true way for anything to be done, and it takes great effort to consider other options.
My final example was particularly poignant due to my complete oblivion in the moment. My homework assignment was to notice emotional conversations and reframe them in the context of my core values. For example, instead of explaining the workings of our system, I am empowering and caring for others.
I had to admit near-total failure when my ADHD coach/doctor followed up with me. But I immediately thought of an opportunity I had missed and described an encounter earlier that day. “No matter how much I tried, I couldn’t get them to understand. I explained in at least three different ways, and it just wasn’t working. I got so frustrated!”
Her response froze me. “It sounds like you were more focused on being understood than on the other person understanding.” I realized that was exactly what had happened, and the cause of my frustration. Instead of caring about the other person and their confusion, I was feeling shame at my apparent failure to be a competent explainer.
Moving forward
We do not live a Severance-style separate life at work. We are full human beings in all aspects of our lives. Whatever our struggles, they will show up everywhere.
With painful clarity, I can look back on my career and see many instances where my focus has not extended beyond myself. Rather than seeking to help others, I sought the satisfaction of a successful data transmission. Concepts that seemed simple as I lived and breathed them were murky to others, and frustration flared if my explanations fell flat. I subtly shifted from serving others to condemning them for their lack of understanding, even as I sabotaged both our efforts.
The next time I notice my heart rate, speech rate, or vocal volume start to rise, I hope to remember this lesson, and pause. Breathe. Question my motives. Center on my values. Then stop thinking about myself at all, and focus on the other person. Their experience should be my highest priority. That can unlock true communication.