The Bermuda Triangle of ADHD

Scientists have spent decades trying to explain the Bermuda Triangle.

Ships disappear.

Airplanes vanish.

People argue over magnetic fields and alien abductions.

Bless their hearts.

They've been looking in the wrong place.

The real Bermuda Triangle is in my living room.

Specifically...around my recliner.

Things enter.

Nothing leaves.

Not because they're lost.

Because my ADHD has declared them permanent residents.

The only time I attempt to tame it is when company is coming over.

And even then...

...it depends entirely on who's coming.

If it's my best friend?

Girl, step over it.

You already know how I live.

If it's someone I don't know well, suddenly I'm throwing things into closets like I'm on a game show called Hide the Evidence.

My best friends know about my tendency to create tiny ecosystems around wherever I sit.

I'd like to think they understand.

Or at the very least...

...they're polite enough not to say, "Tracy, why are there seventeen pens and three different beverages within arm's reach?"

Because the answer is obvious.

What if I need all seventeen pens?

I discovered my personal Bermuda Triangle years ago.

My ex-husband casually mentioned one day that I create a triangle of stuff around myself no matter where I'm sitting.

At first I wanted to be offended.

Then I looked around.

There it was.

Coffee.

Books.

Papers.

Remote.

Shoes.

Random charging cable that may or may not fit anything I currently own.

A single sock.

(I don't know whose sock.)

I don't ask questions anymore.

He wasn't wrong.

From that day on, it sort of became...

...my signature look.

Some women wear statement necklaces.

Some carry designer handbags.

Some accessorize with scarves.

Me?

I accessorize with controlled chaos.

My signature accessory is the Bermuda Triangle of Crap.

As a writer, creator, and business owner, I genuinely believe everything around me serves an important purpose.

On my right side you'll find:

My coffee.

My cola-flavored water.

Morning medications.

A cup overflowing with pens, markers, and highlighters.

Regular glasses.

Reading glasses.

Because apparently my eyeballs like wardrobe changes.

The TV remotes.

A bag of floss picks.

Hand lotion.

Because dry hands are unacceptable, but apparently living in organized conditions is asking too much.

On my left...

The Paper Pile.

Every ADHD household has one.

Don't lie.

It's full of things I absolutely intend to look through.

Someday.

Probably.

Maybe.

Important papers.

Not-so-important papers.

Coupons that expired during the Obama administration.

A receipt I'm convinced I'll need for taxes.

I won't.

But what if?

Next to that sits a growing stack of books.

Books I've read.

Books I'm reading.

Books I bought because buying books and reading books are two completely different hobbies.

Then a tissue box.

Because allergies.

Or tears.

Or both.

Life keeps you guessing.

Slightly to the right sits what I lovingly call...

The Floor of Doom.

This is where abandoned hobbies go to process their feelings.

My crochet basket lives there.

Inside is the beginning of a blanket.

And by "beginning," I mean about fourteen inches of what was absolutely going to become a beautiful heirloom quilt.

Three years ago.

Maybe four.

Who's counting?

Resting on top is my daughter's sweater that needs one tiny repair.

One.

Tiny.

Repair.

I've been mentally repairing it for about eighteen months now.

Nearby you'll also find my slippers.

Flip-flops.

A rogue phone charger.

And usually at least one dog who has accepted that this pile is now part of the furniture.

To the left lives the trash can.

A blanket basket.

And perhaps the greatest decorating decision I've ever made...

Chair Cow.

Chair Cow is a giant stuffed Highland cow that my daughter convinced me to buy.

I honestly have no memory of what I planned to do with him.

Maybe hug him?

Display him?

Become the eccentric cow lady?

Instead...

He's become my laptop stand.

I prop my computer on his fuzzy little belly while I write.

I've written thousands upon thousands of words sitting in that recliner with Chair Cow faithfully supporting my laptop like it's his full-time career.

He's not just a stuffed animal anymore.

He's an unpaid intern.

Now before you think that's the entire triangle...

Oh, sweet friend.

No.

That is merely the starter package.

Depending on what creative obsession currently has me in a chokehold, additional items may appear.

Notebook number six because apparently the first five weren't "the right notebook."

Sticky notes.

Colored Sharpies.

Half-finished website sketches.

Book outlines.

Random Amazon boxes that I'm saving because surely I'll need a box someday.

Three charging cables.

(None of which fit the device currently dying in my hand.)

A candle.

A snack.

Another snack because I forgot I already had one.

A tape measure.

Don't ask.

I don't know either.

The truly fascinating thing about ADHD is that none of this feels messy to me.

It feels...efficient.

Everything I might possibly need is within arm's reach.

I have carefully engineered my own tiny command center.

Could another human walk into my living room and identify the system?

Absolutely not.

Could I?

Also...not really.

But I know the vibes.

Here's what's funny.

People often assume clutter means laziness.

Or carelessness.

Or a lack of discipline.

But for many people with ADHD, it's actually the opposite.

We're trying to reduce friction.

Every object is there because our brain knows one important truth:

If I put it away...

...there's a decent chance I'll never think about it again.

Out of sight doesn't become out of mind.

It becomes deleted from the operating system.

That crochet basket isn't sitting there because I'm irresponsible.

It's sitting there because if I put it in a closet, I won't remember I crochet until approximately 2037.

The medications stay visible because invisible medications don't get taken.

The books stay stacked because hidden books stop existing.

The paperwork stays where I can see it because...

...well...

Okay, that one still isn't getting done.

But at least I know where it is.

The older I've gotten, the less shame I've attached to my Bermuda Triangle.

Sure, I clean it up.

Eventually.

Usually because I've reached the point where I can't find my coffee despite the fact that I'm holding it.

But I've stopped believing it means there's something wrong with me.

My brain simply builds little ecosystems that help me function.

Could they use a little pruning now and then?

Absolutely.

Should Chair Cow maybe negotiate for better working conditions?

Probably.

But I've learned something important.

My home doesn't have to look like a magazine to support the life I'm building.

It just has to work for the wonderfully weird brain living inside it.

Although...

If I ask if anyone has seen my reading glasses...

Tell me to check the Bermuda Triangle.

That's where everything ends up eventually.