Monkeys and Alligators: My ADHD Journey

In 2023, at age 49, I received the diagnosis that transformed my understanding of myself: Attention Deficit Hyperactive disorder (ADHD). For years, I had navigated episodes of anxiety, depression, and anger, developing coping mechanisms that somehow kept me afloat. But that year, the depression became overwhelming. I needed help.

What pushed me to seek support was my sister. During her medical studies, she had studied ADHD extensively. With the frankness only a sister can provide, she said, "You're a textbook case of ADHD." Her words were simultaneously shocking and deeply familiar.

The psychiatrist confirmed both types: inattentive and hyperactive. The moment he spoke those words, a weight lifted from my chest—a burden I hadn't realized I'd been carrying. I had always known I was different, but could never name it. Now I had a map to understand my own mind.

The Medication Revelation

My doctor prescribed atomoxetine, starting low. For weeks, nothing changed. But at the correct dosage, something remarkable happened.

As a computer engineer, I can only describe it this way: imagine your computer running dozens of applications simultaneously, slowing everything down. Then suddenly, all background apps fade away, leaving one program running smoothly. That's what happened in my mind. The constant chatter of multiple thoughts collapsed into a single, clear stream.

For the first time, I could focus on one task without compulsive multitasking. Even listening to music transformed. Before, I'd simultaneously process melody, analyze lyrics, create mental imagery, and critique production. Now, I could simply listen and enjoy.

I was stunned by this development. I'd assumed everyone had multiple thoughts running constantly. I finally understood why others misunderstood me—I was running thousands of mental simulations during conversations, while most people processed only one or two. These background simulations meant I couldn't always explain how I reached conclusions, though I knew my intutions were mostly
correct. 

The Monkey Mind

I developed a metaphor for my ADHD mind: a lake full of chattering monkeys.  Each monkey represents a different thought, and they're all trying to be heard at once. Some are actively thinking, others are talking over each other, and each believes their message is the most urgent and important.

These monkeys constantly interrupt each other. When one monkey is speaking—or even listening—another will suddenly leap forward to hijack the conversation. I had learned to live with this chaos, but in professional settings or family gatherings, others found it frustrating when my monkey mind caused me to jump topics mid-sentence.

The medication brought one monkey to the forefront while pushing others to the background.  They were still there, still chattering, just more quietly. And more troubling, I still experienced anxiety and depression because those subdued monkeys weren't at peace.

Discovering the Alligators

That is when I realized something profound: my monkeys weren't standing on solid ground—they were perched on alligators. These alligators represented my emotions, submerged in murky subconscious waters.

The revelation struck hard: I'd spent so much energy managing monkey thoughts that I'd completely ignored the emotional alligators beneath them. The monkeys weren't the root cause—they were merely visible symptoms of deeper emotional turbulence.

Somewhere in my past—perhaps through education, societal expectations about masculinity, or other influences—I had learned that emotions were dangerous, something to be suppressed rather than acknowledged. The intellect and rationality that I was so proud of, had pushed my feelings so deep that they became faceless, formless threats lurking beneath the surface. When these emotional alligators did rise up, they emerged as frustration and anger, catching me and everyone around me off guard.

The Heart of Being Human

The alligators are actually more important than the monkeys. They represent what makes us human—our capacity for connection, our deepest values, our core beliefs. The monkeys give words to experiences, but the alligators are the emotional truth driving everything.

By quieting my monkeys through medication and meditation, I created space to see my alligators. The more I acknowledge them, the less threatening they become. They're not monsters to be feared but parts of myself needing attention and care.

Tools

My journey involves various strategies. For monkeys, journaling my inner thoughts helps a lot as it quiets them down by giving them space to express. Along with the realization of  "free-fall with no ground" —enjoying the present instead of worrying about the future based on past neuroses. But emotions require different tools.

The most powerful has been self-compassion. I realized I extend endless empathy to others while denying it to myself. Learning radical self-acceptance has been crucial in making peace with my emotional alligators.

Deeper Waters

As I continue, I wonder: what lies beneath the alligators? Perhaps the water itself—the fundamental environment of my psyche—has undiscovered properties. Maybe my alligators point to creative energy I haven't yet discovered. 

Could other people's ADHD work in reverse to mine? While I struggle with monkeys drowning out alligators, perhaps others experience emotional flooding—their alligators overwhelming them before their cognetive monkeys have time to process what's happening.

A Message of Hope

If you recognize your own struggles here, know you're not alone. Your chattering monkeys and hidden alligators aren't character flaws—they're simply how your beautiful, complex mind processes the world.

The path forward isn't about silencing monkeys or slaying alligators. It's about understanding them, working with them, integrating all parts of yourself. Medication might quieten the noise, but real work happens when you're brave enough to look beneath the surface.

This is a lifelong journey, and I'm still taking first steps. But each day brings new understanding and deeper peace. The monkeys still chatter, the alligators still swim, but now I know them by name. And in knowing them, I'm finally learning to know myself.