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Leaf: I have a special surprise for you :)
A butterfly takes up residence in my lower tummy. Oh—yes. Nothing beats a good surprise.
Me: I like surprises :)
Leaf: Have you been watching our tape?
Me: Every night *blushes*
Leaf: Me too, baby boy
Me: What’s the surprise?
Leaf: You’ll find out when I see you again
I check the date on my phone—then groan when I realize it’s only Tuesday. Three more calendar days until I can see Leaf.
Until then, I’ll have to distract myself by doing the best work I can with his former company.
Then I’ll get Leaf’s wonderful surprise for me.
Leaf
I sort through a pile of invoices as I try to ignore my phone. Two minutes ago, temptation won out—and I texted Cory.
Why? I couldn’t stand not speaking to him all morning. I know he’s busy at work—creating value for his bosses—but I'd be lying if I said I wasn’t lonely.
Someone tell me why I didn’t move him into my home last weekend. I can’t stand being away from him.
A grumbly sigh escapes me as I recline in my seat. "I need some focus medicine."
Ten years ago, when I was diagnosed with adult ADHD, the psychiatrist who oversaw my case prescribed a stimulant. It helped me perform daily tasks—but I hated the way it made me feel.
Instead of the creative, enthusiastic man I’d always been, I was a boring number-cruncher who didn’t laugh at jokes.
Yes, it made me "fit in." But sometimes, "fitting in" is code for losing who you are. Sacrificing fundamental elements of your identity to be able to do what "normal" people do isn’t always a great thing.
That’s why so many Fortune 500 CEOs with ADHD find other ways of coping. They hire PAs, corporate Mommies and Daddies to remind them of meetings, schedules, and tasks. They’re not willing to risk the brain-processing power that led them to rise to their current leadership positions in the first place.
That’s partially why I enjoyed the idea of a flat with servants. They take care of the day-to-day mundanity associated with managing a home—I focus on what I’m good at. Managing my accounts.
Today, I have zero interest in doing what I must do—which is figuring out how much money I should send my parents this month.
That was one of the best things about cashing out and selling my business. While I was building it, every penny needed to go back into mergers and acquisitions. Withdrawing spare cash flow, even a seemingly negligible amount to support my parents, was unjustifiable when it could’ve helped my business grow.
Now? I have all the money in the world to give them. They don't require much, only a few thousand bucks a month to maintain their post-war condo in Midtown with ornate hardwood floors that’s conveniently located next to fabulous Greek and Thai restaurants, which they love.
But at this moment, I’m barely able to focus on what to send them. I should probably pick an amount and set up autopay—but I don't always trust technology to do what it says it’ll do on time.
Against my better judgment, I slide my security camera footage into my office TV—and press play.
A groan escapes me. "You should not watch this during the day."
It’s true. I should conserve my energy to head to a local museum, a sport’s game, or literally anything else.
Sadly, ever since last weekend, all my attention and focus has gone into one thing—watching me and my new boy. He is my new boy—I’m sure of that.
Cursing my weakness, I watch as I lead Cory into my bedroom after our time at Little Land.
