HOME | DD

Description
Before Ben was my husband--when our relationship was new and we were still an ocean apart--he was working on a kind of nail polish that changed color in sunlight. He sent me through the mail a piece of projector film painted with the clear varnish and told me to put it out on my window ledge. When I picked it up later, the words "I love you" had appeared as clear as day in peony purple on the film.

That was Ben, captured perfectly. While a poet might make a romantic gesture with beautiful words, and an artist might paint a portrait of his beloved, my logical sweetheart spelled out romance with science.

I should start a little earlier than that, though.

In 2003, I was seventeen years old. I was struggling at school; bright enough to achieve anything I wanted, or so I was told, but giving in to the labels that had been slapped on me since childhood: lazy, daydreamer, unmotivated, scatterbrained. The initial momentum of natural ability had run up against the brick wall of brain chemistry, and the result was… well, not failure, but certainly not fulfillment of parent and teacher views of my potential. As usual, that August evening I was escaping the glare of parental disappointment by hiding in my bedroom, buried in my laptop.

I found a community online in which I met people from all over the world. Many of the friendships I made during this time have been lasting. While I enjoyed talking to all of them--these fascinating people who represented such a wider range of lives and personalities than I could ever hope to find in my tiny town--no one captured my attention quite like Ben.

When it came to Ben, I was hooked from the word go. I was just past my eighteenth birthday-—a shy, awkward adolescent-—and here was a dashing twenty-three year old American with a shining wit and a career in science. Twenty-three! It seemed such a mature and exciting age to me. And American to boot. Americans were cool. Initially resistant to the idea of being anything but just friends with a younger girl an ocean away, after six months of daily chats he overcame his practical nature long enough to throw caution to the wind and make arrangements to visit me in England.

Once we embarked on a serious emotional relationship, it turned out that there was indeed a large maturity gap between a twenty-three year old and an eighteen year old. While I had always been more introspective than the typical party-all-night teenager, I had to make some large strides to keep up with a self-sufficient adult on a relationship level. He had to teach me to communicate; to discuss instead of argue. "I understand what you're saying," he would tell me, "but it would be better if you phrased it like this. That way it doesn't seem like an accusation." I came to understand that there was an alternative way to discuss feelings-—a better way than the screaming matches that were my primary method of expressing frustration with my parents.
He came to visit in the summer of 2004. It was strange to see him in person after only having exchanged photos before. He had spiked blond hair and a goatee (both now clipped short, thankfully, the goatee exchanged for a casual smattering of stubble, only occasionally verging on full beard when the thesis stress threatens to overwhelm). He was not much taller than me—-a fact that I liked, because I appreciate being on the same level-—with clear blue eyes and a shy smile. The meeting was at first terrifying, and then blissful. I was immediately enveloped in a warm blanket of affection and acceptance like I had never felt before. "It is okay to be you" was the message that came through in the way he treated me. Whenever I told him of an idea I had, or showed him something I had written or made, he was abundant in his praise. "You're a genius," he'd say. "You should write a book." Even now his effusive compliments often have me rolling my eyes, but over the top as they may be, he genuinely means them. After a lifetime of failing to live up to expectations, it's been a hard road for me to learn self-worth; a journey I'm still on. If not for Ben, though, I wouldn't even have taken the first step.
Several months after his first visit and over a year after we first started talking, we decided that I should go to stay with him for as long as I was legally allowed to--ninety days. That is how it came to be that I, eighteen, painfully shy and terrified of flying, left home and boarded a plane to another country to stay with the man I loved. I would be lying if I said I was brave about it. In fact, I spent most of the time between the car ride to the airport and landing in Boston vomiting from pure terror. The important thing is that I did it. It was the most life-changing decision I ever made, and it changed me—-forever.

I have read that people with ADHD often end up in relationships with one of two types of people. Either they find someone ultra-organized and efficient and will probably benefit from that while suffering through a stormy partnership, or they will meet someone much like themselves and live together in an atmosphere of messy, disorganized, and unpunctual mutual understanding. It is the latter that best describes our relationship. It was like night and day going from life with my neat, on the ball mother to my relaxed husband, a man who thinks it's no big deal if I don't get around to the laundry today and gives me an understanding hug when I lose yet another set of keys.

That is not to say, however, that we are similar in all respects. The success of our marriage is a combination of like minds bonding and opposites attracting. We may be similar in some respects, such as our senses of humor and our trouble staying organized, but we see the world in completely different ways. Like I said earlier, Ben is logical to the very core, and as for me? I am driven more by intuition than science, feeling more than logic. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the kitchen. Though we are both capable and enthusiastic cooks, we have learned that things run more smoothly if we avoid engaging in that pursuit at the same time. Cooking a meal together is, for us, a bad idea. The problem stems from the fact that he cooks like a scientist, and I cook like an artist. He is aghast when I throw into a recipe a "pinch" or a "handful" of various ingredients. I get frustrated when he insists that I set a timer for everything that I cook. "It's ready when it looks ready," I tell him, and he drops his head into his hands, wearily.

Still, this side of his nature is both fascinating and endearing to me. You can keep your portrait painters and your love poets. I am not interested in men who buy flowers and diamonds. It is as clear to me as the purple declaration of love that appeared on that long-ago lost sheet of film; my scientist husband gave me the gifts of a new life, of self-confidence, of independence. I couldn't ask for anything more.

Description
Before Ben was my husband--when our relationship was new and we were still an ocean apart--he was working on a kind of nail polish that changed color in sunlight. He sent me through the mail a piece of projector film painted with the clear varnish and told me to put it out on my window ledge. When I picked it up later, the words "I love you" had appeared as clear as day in peony purple on the film.

That was Ben, captured perfectly. While a poet might make a romantic gesture with beautiful words, and an artist might paint a portrait of his beloved, my logical sweetheart spelled out romance with science.

I should start a little earlier than that, though.

In 2003, I was seventeen years old. I was struggling at school; bright enough to achieve anything I wanted, or so I was told, but giving in to the labels that had been slapped on me since childhood: lazy, daydreamer, unmotivated, scatterbrained. The initial momentum of natural ability had run up against the brick wall of brain chemistry, and the result was… well, not failure, but certainly not fulfillment of parent and teacher views of my potential. As usual, that August evening I was escaping the glare of parental disappointment by hiding in my bedroom, buried in my laptop.

I found a community online in which I met people from all over the world. Many of the friendships I made during this time have been lasting. While I enjoyed talking to all of them--these fascinating people who represented such a wider range of lives and personalities than I could ever hope to find in my tiny town--no one captured my attention quite like Ben.

When it came to Ben, I was hooked from the word go. I was just past my eighteenth birthday-—a shy, awkward adolescent-—and here was a dashing twenty-three year old American with a shining wit and a career in science. Twenty-three! It seemed such a mature and exciting age to me. And American to boot. Americans were cool. Initially resistant to the idea of being anything but just friends with a younger girl an ocean away, after six months of daily chats he overcame his practical nature long enough to throw caution to the wind and make arrangements to visit me in England.

Once we embarked on a serious emotional relationship, it turned out that there was indeed a large maturity gap between a twenty-three year old and an eighteen year old. While I had always been more introspective than the typical party-all-night teenager, I had to make some large strides to keep up with a self-sufficient adult on a relationship level. He had to teach me to communicate; to discuss instead of argue. "I understand what you're saying," he would tell me, "but it would be better if you phrased it like this. That way it doesn't seem like an accusation." I came to understand that there was an alternative way to discuss feelings-—a better way than the screaming matches that were my primary method of expressing frustration with my parents.
He came to visit in the summer of 2004. It was strange to see him in person after only having exchanged photos before. He had spiked blond hair and a goatee (both now clipped short, thankfully, the goatee exchanged for a casual smattering of stubble, only occasionally verging on full beard when the thesis stress threatens to overwhelm). He was not much taller than me—-a fact that I liked, because I appreciate being on the same level-—with clear blue eyes and a shy smile. The meeting was at first terrifying, and then blissful. I was immediately enveloped in a warm blanket of affection and acceptance like I had never felt before. "It is okay to be you" was the message that came through in the way he treated me. Whenever I told him of an idea I had, or showed him something I had written or made, he was abundant in his praise. "You're a genius," he'd say. "You should write a book." Even now his effusive compliments often have me rolling my eyes, but over the top as they may be, he genuinely means them. After a lifetime of failing to live up to expectations, it's been a hard road for me to learn self-worth; a journey I'm still on. If not for Ben, though, I wouldn't even have taken the first step.
Several months after his first visit and over a year after we first started talking, we decided that I should go to stay with him for as long as I was legally allowed to--ninety days. That is how it came to be that I, eighteen, painfully shy and terrified of flying, left home and boarded a plane to another country to stay with the man I loved. I would be lying if I said I was brave about it. In fact, I spent most of the time between the car ride to the airport and landing in Boston vomiting from pure terror. The important thing is that I did it. It was the most life-changing decision I ever made, and it changed me—-forever.

I have read that people with ADHD often end up in relationships with one of two types of people. Either they find someone ultra-organized and efficient and will probably benefit from that while suffering through a stormy partnership, or they will meet someone much like themselves and live together in an atmosphere of messy, disorganized, and unpunctual mutual understanding. It is the latter that best describes our relationship. It was like night and day going from life with my neat, on the ball mother to my relaxed husband, a man who thinks it's no big deal if I don't get around to the laundry today and gives me an understanding hug when I lose yet another set of keys.

That is not to say, however, that we are similar in all respects. The success of our marriage is a combination of like minds bonding and opposites attracting. We may be similar in some respects, such as our senses of humor and our trouble staying organized, but we see the world in completely different ways. Like I said earlier, Ben is logical to the very core, and as for me? I am driven more by intuition than science, feeling more than logic. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the kitchen. Though we are both capable and enthusiastic cooks, we have learned that things run more smoothly if we avoid engaging in that pursuit at the same time. Cooking a meal together is, for us, a bad idea. The problem stems from the fact that he cooks like a scientist, and I cook like an artist. He is aghast when I throw into a recipe a "pinch" or a "handful" of various ingredients. I get frustrated when he insists that I set a timer for everything that I cook. "It's ready when it looks ready," I tell him, and he drops his head into his hands, wearily.

Still, this side of his nature is both fascinating and endearing to me. You can keep your portrait painters and your love poets. I am not interested in men who buy flowers and diamonds. It is as clear to me as the purple declaration of love that appeared on that long-ago lost sheet of film; my scientist husband gave me the gifts of a new life, of self-confidence, of independence. I couldn't ask for anything more.