#ADDA: Mooner For President


So. I have recently become aware of the group known as #ADDA, which is short for Attention Deficit Disorder Association. Their motto is, “Helping adults with AD/HD lead better lives.”

At least I think you’d call it a motto. Maybe it’s important enough to be their creed. Of course, it might also be unimportant in the greater scheme of things and simply be a saying.

Anyway, I went to their website and blog and found E-stuff that shows a high degree of organization and professionalism. You could see the attention to detail, how they stayed with their style and the lack of typographical errors.

My antennas started twitching instantaneously.

For starters, the hyphen they place between the AD and the HD is the telltale sign of a mental health professional. I could recognize their tracks if I was blindfolded and had my hands tied behind my back. Like when you find bear shit in the woods you can be reasonably certain that a bear was there. It is possible that some silly fuckball moved a pile of bear shit just to screw with people, but I find that highly unlikely.

I mean really– will you find enough people who can distinguish between a pile of bear shit, and say a load dropped by a guy looking for bear shit to pick up and move to fake people out, to have a large enough census to make it worth the effort? Not many piles of fake bear shit.

As for calling the ADHD “AD/HD”, we chronic sufferers will never separate our deficits from our disorder. Won’t do it. Hell, I can’t do it.

Mental health professionals, on the other hand, have no trouble with attempting to break the bonds that bind us up. People like Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my ex-wife and psycho therapist. She absolutely hates it when I separate her psychos from their therapy, my favorite joke, but she gains a certain relish from hyphenating my malady.


I asked Sammy about ADDA in my Saturday emergency session this morning. “They are quite well respected in my community, Mooner. They can, and have, helped thousands of AD/HD sufferers lead better lives.” Then she added, “That’s their motto.”

I guessed that one right. “But it’s not run by ADHDites, it’s a bunch of mental health professionals. They need to feature stuff from crazy people so they can better relate to us.”

“Look, Mooner,” she started, “don’t get revved up over this. It’s not your fight.”

When I looked away, she showed some awareness on her face– the look I get when she’s caught me up to something. “Mooner, what are you planning?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m just thinking of who all I need to get holiday presents for. What with all of the Christians and Jews and Muslims and Buddhists in my life, I don’t feel right calling it Christmas any more.”

Now I get the stern look that says, “You are fucking with me, Mooner.”

“Are you fucking with me, Mooner?” she asks.

“You’re right,” I tell her. “I should have said I was thinking of all the persons for whom I need to get presents.”

“Mooner, I’m warning you.”

I look away and don’t answer again.

“Mooner, do I need to lock you up to keep you out of trouble until Christmas?”

When I don’t answer this time she says to me, she says, “You know Shoal Creek Mental Hospital s number 2 on my speed dial.” To underscore her point, she picks up her handset and points a prettily-manicured finger at the 2 on her dial.

I have always liked her hands. She’s small-boned anyway, but her hands have always been delicate– long and sexy. Today she’s got Santa Claus red nail polish tipping each nail. She’s never lost a fingernail so she can get them very sharp. I still have daydreams about when we were married and she would scratch my back.

“Mooner!!! Answer me!!!” With this, she touches the magic 2 on her dial.

“Fine,” I say. “I was just thinking about a hostile takeover of the ADDA.”

Now what I’ve got looking at me are twin laser beams tracking from normally beautiful hazel eyes. “Oh for crap sakes. Leave them alone, Mooner. Promise me you will leave them alone.”

“Fine,” I say again. “But I’m going to run for office of something.”

“No, you are not. In fact don’t you even join the ADDA except under my direct supervision.”

“Bitch,” I say to myself.

“I may be a bitch, but you’ll be in a bitch of a mess if you screw with the ADDA.”

“Fine,” I say one more time. “But I’m not making any more promises.”

“And that’s fine with me. Now, let’s talk about your problems,” my therapist says.

“Well, how about I start with the obnoxious bitch that I pay to assist me with my mental health issues. The over-priced, pushy bitch one.” I am a seriously funny guy.

“Oops, sorry Mooner. Your time is up.”

Actually, I’m releived because I have a busy day. I rise from my chair and she adds, “Oh, by the way. Did I tell you that I’m now charging $480 per hour for Saturday emergency sessions?”

“Bitch.” It was all I had in me.

I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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