The Fool’s Move: Living ADHD

Imagine all people are chess pieces. Different pieces move differently. A pawn moves only forward, one square at a time. A knight moves in an L-shape. A queen moves straight and diagonal. Every piece has its standard moves.

Some pieces also have special moves, like the rook's castling. The rook can jump over the king—but just once and only if neither piece has moved since the start of the game.

Our game is more complex than chess, and so are the rules. A pawn can move in an L-shape like a knight, but it will then spend the next five moves retreating backward.

“Wake up at five every morning, run ten kilometers, eat at the same time daily, quit your gadgets, go to bed on time—and you'll have no attention problems!” Probably true. I'm not going to do any of it, of course.

Not because I don't want to. There were periods when I wanted nothing more desperately. But for me, this is no easier than flying by flapping my arms very fast. Or for a pawn—moving in an L-shape.

For people with ADHD, anything that falls under “should” or “must” is generally off-limits—possible only under special circumstances.

Say you need to do task A. You may understand intellectually that A will bring a desired reward: health, gratitude from others, a good grade, profit. You may realize that failing to do A will bring harm you genuinely fear: illness, ruined relationships, financial loss, termination, prison, death. You may even love doing A and enjoy the process.

Any single one of these reasons is individually enough for a neurotypical person to do A without thinking twice. All of them combined aren't enough to motivate someone with ADHD. Rational arguments, fears, desires, stick, carrot—none of these translate into the impulse that makes you get up and do something.

These are “special moves.” You can occasionally act on rational motivation, but you'll pay for it—sometimes with months of total apathy or a streak of reckless, irresponsible behavior.

Neurotypical people find this extremely hard to grasp. They assume you're manipulating, mocking, or gaslighting. Surely you can't be physically incapable of pulling yourself together and just doing it!?

They have a whole taxonomy for you. The gentle version: you're confused about what you want, you underestimate the rewards, you haven't had a chance to develop a taste for how enjoyable it is. The blunt version: you're lazy, you don't care, you lack discipline. And if they're feeling nostalgic—you weren't beaten hard enough as a child.

Progressive psychologists in our humane era reject these accusations—but they build equally detached theories. Childhood trauma made you afraid of A. Self-destructive tendencies. A subconscious desire to punish yourself. They try to convince you that you “deserve happiness” and urge you to “love yourself.”

But you do. You don't seek suffering at all. You're simply motivated by different things than neurotypicals—at the level of neurons and biochemistry. When ordinary stimuli don't trigger neural activation, how is this different from being paralyzed? The nerve impulse doesn't come through from the frontal lobes all the same. It fades or gets suppressed by other impulses.

For you, the permitted moves are tied to novelty, competition, intellectual or physical challenge, and the thrill of random, unpredictable—not guaranteed!—rewards. Okay, threat avoidance is also a permitted move, but only when the danger is immediate. In extreme situations, people with ADHD suddenly gain the ability to do what they “should”—at gunpoint, fleeing an avalanche, the night before a deadline, the morning of a court hearing.

First move—like a pawn. Second—the knight's L. Third—like a queen. Fourth—like a rook, but not landing on white squares. Fifth—like any piece, but only if it lets you overtake the same black piece. Sixth—like a queen again, but only to squares you've never been on before.

Originality over efficiency, showing what you can do over the result, and self-preservation is not a goal in itself.

You can get from point A to point B. But where another person simply moves a piece from one square to another—one move or a series of predictable moves—your path will be convoluted and elaborate.

On the bright side, it'll make a great story later.

I know it's good for me. I know dental problems will cost me dearly—I've already spent a fortune on dentists. I even enjoy brushing my teeth! Once I start, I scrub every tooth with gusto for five minutes.

But getting up to brush my teeth is no easier than rolling Sisyphus's boulder uphill. I sit on the edge of the bed in a dull stupor, nearly shutting down from exhaustion, postponing sleep hour after hour. Not because I’m doing something important. Because going to brush my teeth means standing up, walking over, grabbing the brush, opening the toothpaste… Each step is a separate “should.” By the end of the day, my “should” reserves are depleted. I've hit a wall. It's two, three, now four in the morning. The toothbrush is still in the bathroom, and I’m not.

I'm not being dramatic (well, maybe just a little bit).

When I finally worked up the nerve to share this in a group for adults with ADHD, I was staggered by dozens of comments from people whose experience matched mine—and some had it worse. People who cry helpless tears every day because they need to brush their teeth and cannot make themselves do it.

If you live with someone who is on autism spectrum or have ADHD with executive dysfunction, you may have a chance to quite literally transform a life. Try offering your help—gently, without judgment, irritation, or veiled mockery. Take them by the hand and guide them, telling them what to do at each moment: brush teeth, spread the sheets, lie down. It sounds silly, absurd, even outrageous. It can be terribly awkward. But it can also be a breath of air for someone drowning in quicksand, unable to inhale.

If you are that someone, you recognized yourself. The same moments, over and over.

I see you.

Hugs.

Here's the thing about ADHD: even if you somehow force yourself to do something for 30, 42, 90, or 365 consecutive days—or however many days the current generation of motivational liars promises results—it will not become a habit. It will remain a “special move” followed by a price.

For a neurotypical person, regular repetition makes an action easier. For someone with ADHD, the opposite is usually true. Constant repetition doesn't ease the task—it makes it harder. The mechanical skill develops like it does for anyone, but motivation drops with each repetition.

A child with ADHD can be forced to do things under threat of punishment, like any other child. But this won't help in adult life, where there's no parent zealously tracking every action.

ADHD is not a disability (well, usually) or an excuse to avoid responsibility. A person with ADHD can study, work, maintain a social life, take on commitments, and follow through.

But achieving this requires working not like an officer commanding a soldier, but like a cat trainer.

The trainer says “Sit.” The cat looks at them, blinks, and starts licking its paw. The trainer raises their voice. The cat walks away.

But pull out a ribbon toy—and the cat leaps. Roll a ball—and the cat bolts after it. Rustle a bag—and the cat is already there. You can't force a cat, but you can make it interested.

Living with ADHD means being both the cat and the trainer at once. Inventing a new game every day. Searching daily for what to rustle to get the part of you capable of “getting up and doing” to pay attention.

I'd give a lot to have understood this thirty years earlier, but well.