Falling Asleep in Class

I think I was in about 4th or 5th grade-- back when we were still living in Denmark-- when I first became consciously aware that I had a difficult time staying awake in some classes.

I do remember the particular sequence of events... how it would happen, each time.

It was often during history class, which I found particularly boring. The teacher would be writing numbers on the board (dates) and droning on and on about some event in 15th century Britain that I really didn't care about. Slowly, I would grow aware of the hardness of my chair... that plain wooden seat... and I would start moving my butt around, a bit. Then there would be the sensation of tiny "pin pricks" on my butt... a little bit like the pins-and-needles sensation when your foot goes to sleep.

At this point, all I could think about was the discomfort in my butt. I'd look at the board and the teacher... and nothing would have changed. Or so it felt. Then I would look at the clock on the wall... and inwardly feel dread at the idea of having to sit there for another 34 minutes.

I was well aware that I was "supposed to" focus on what was going on in class... but my eyelids just felt so heavy, like I hadn't slept in several days. But I was acutely aware of how embarrassing it would be if I actually fell asleep in class, so I'd move my head to try to move on. I'd look out the window, at the weather; at anything the moved; trees in the breeze. Our "home room" was on the 3rd floor... and faced a road, across from which was the local train station. I'd watch people come and go, getting ready to take the trains. I envied them their freedom.

By this point, the teacher's voice was just a backdrop for my efforts to stay awake... and my wandering mind, which was mostly on memories of taking the train into the city to visit various family members. History was no longer even part of my awareness.

I'd only look out the window for a while... then I'd "look" back at my desk, or in my history book. I was extremely adept at looking like I was "concentrating" even though what I was looking at was mainly a fog...

From time to time, I'd "snap back" to where we were... in class... teacher talking about some battle.

The "danger zone" came when he finished his talking and started asking questions. I did NOT do well when called on, unless I knew the answer ahead of time.

Early Memories of Cleaning my Room

It's funny how old memories re-visited can sometimes lead to insight.

My mother-- like most parents, I expect-- was eternally trying to get me to keep my room clean. Or, at the very least, trying to teach me how to keep it from looking like a bomb fallout area.

By the time I was eight or nine, it seemed like her frustration at my clutter-- and let's add here that my mom was a "neat freak"-- seemed to reach a peak. I remember her words, to this day "I just don't understand why something as simply as keeping your room tidy has to be SUCH a big production! WHY can't you just do this very simple thing?"

Retrospectively, maybe it was a fair question. I had a fairly good sized room, with a good sized closet, and we'd been to IKEA and had bought all manners of "organizational units." IKEA is really good for that sort of stuff.

And yet? My world was always a cluttered mess.

I remember responding to my mother-- on several occasions "Mom, I am just a FUNDAMENTALLY LAZY person."

My mother, of course, was horrified and insulted by that idea. She replied "What utter nonsense! No child in this family is lazy!" or something like that.

My point, though, is that it wasn't a "flip" comment, on my behalf. I'd actually thought about it, quite a bit. I loved my mom, and I didn't want to make her unhappy... and yet? Cleaning my room felt like... SO. MUCH.  WORK.

I distinctly remember how I would start off on a day of tidying up... and I would start to feel "heavy;" almost sleepy. I would get my Lego neatly put away... and I would feel so tired and groggy. Which was really weird, because I was "that kid" who could never take naps. It was so much "easier" to just stare out the window at the branches of the trees, moving in the wind.

My nine-year old brain reasoned that because I wanted to "sleep" rather than "work" it meant I was lazy. It was truly a genuine argument, not a "put off" answer.

Of course, 9-year old will go to some length to not have to do their chores. But looking back at the way I understood "not cleaning my room," it seems more evident that inattentive ADD was playing a part in my life, back then.