There are one or two last behaviours that might suggest a slight Attention Deficit cast of mind.
For example, I’m horrifically impatience. I’m ok if I know how long there is to go, but I’m driven frantic by delayed trains, doctors’ waiting rooms, speeches, meetings and workshops, or waiting to take children home from clubs or parties. Then, every moment contains the possibility of an end to the torment but doesn’t, and this state could continue indefinitely. I’m going to have hysterics, I’m overwhelmed by claustrophobia; I’m panting with the horror of it. I’m going to puke. I think I might eat my own head. Once, during an interminable leaving speech, I actually burst into tears.
I always have a book with me. A book is a charm that promises to ward off the storms of angst that gust up through my chest, into my throat, making me unable to breathe. It never works, though, because by then I’m too worked up to concentrate.
I remember, at Ascot House, morning meetings made me climb the walls. They could be done in 5 minutes, but, instead, they wandered on and on, with no guarantee of an ending. There was no need for any of the comments to be made – they were trivial and self-evident, yet I couldn’t leave and go and do something useful until they were finished. It was awful. I wished somebody would just shoot me.
I guess everybody hates waiting, but…
Actually, does everyone? Are we the same? How can I tell?