There is a song that made me cry the first time I heard it. Every time since, the result is the same. I weep deeply.
It’s a funny thing though. Ask anyone who knew me and they would think NO WAY this applies to Jim. I think that’s the point.
The 1996 revival of the musical Chicago was playing on Broadway when the boat was in Manhattan during the summer of 99. Though broke, I found a way in to see pretty much every play that I could. That was summer I saw Chicago. That summer I heard this turn delivered so beautifully by John C. Reilly:
Here are the lyrics for those of you not inclined to clink a link:
If Someone Stood Up In A Crowd
And Raised His Voice Up Way Out Loud
And Waved His Arm And Shook His Leg
You'd Notice Him
If Someone In The Movie Show
Yelled "Fire In The Second Row
This Whole Place Is A Powder Keg!"
You'd Notice Him
And Even Without Clucking Like A Hen
Everyone Gets Noticed, Now And Then,
Unless, Of Course, That Personage Should Be
Invisible, Inconsequential Me!
Cellophane
Mister Cellophane
Shoulda Been My Name
Mister Cellophane
'Cause You Can Look Right Through Me
Walk Right By Me
And Never Know I'm There...
Anyone who’s known me for any time would think this to be absurd. There’s never a time when we don’t know that Jim’s there. If we don’t know, Jim let’s us know.
I’ve had a reputation for being big, taking up space and needing to be seen. While I may have been seen, the disability I have lived with my entire life has not. Instead, I’ve been seen as rude, angry, impulsive, attention seeking, melodramatic, lazy, white male privileged … the list goes on...
I’ve been blamed for my disability. It’s been considered a character flaw. I’ve been considered highly problematic1 Everyone, including me missed something. I have a cellophane disability. You can’t see it. I couldn’t see it. People can’t see me.
What’s worse, they’ve seen what they want in me.
I became the scapegoat the stand in and receiver for every titchy little bit of aggression and resentment that people have for people who look like me - normal enough - and act like me when I’m unable to maintain the mask required to participate in polite society.
That just works extra well with the fairly pathetic, suburban dude bad boy cranky old man shouting GET OFF MY LAWN at clouds while complaining about young people image that I’ve been working so hard to cultivate.
Yes. I’m a hottie, a silver fox at fifty and LMFAO sing my theme tune.
Well… So did Right Said Fred
As did Justin
I digress…
While at the same time, my wife regularly states: You’re lucky you’re cute.
Maybe.
But if I wasn’t so cute, maybe it wouldn’t have been so easy for me to get away with a lot of bullshit. I had a cute shield to help me get away with impulsive shitty behaviour.
Cute shield?
Naw, more of a cute cloak.
A cute cloak of invisibility. It’s a sharp little thing, pointy even - though I doubt few will consider that last bit of rambling enough to pick up on the really bad joke / pun contained herein.
Either way, wither though cuteness or improbable creativity, I’ve been a sneaky little jerk and hidden my ADHD wild wiring from myself and the rest of the world.
My entire life I’ve been invisibly disabled. Adult ADHD is a cellophane disability.
So.
If you’re wired wildly with ADHD, are ya cute?
Or perhaps really helpful?
What else do you do almost without knowing it to hide your wild wring from the world?
