There is a very specific brand of chaos that comes from having a neurodivergent brain and adult responsibilities. It’s not just forgetting things or struggling with focus—those are the greatest hits, sure—but the real madness lives in the whiplash. In the way I can go from “I have so much to do” to “Let me reorganize my bookshelves by color” in the time it takes my coffee to cool.
Case in point: It’s Monday morning. I am sitting in my office, fully aware that I have a long list of very real, very urgent tasks that need my attention. Emails to answer. Projects to move forward. Actual, scheduled obligations that grown-up me signed up for. But instead of doing any of that, I’m staring at a roll of wallpaper I bought on a whim like it holds the secret to unlocking my executive function.
And my brain—my darling, lying little chaos machine—has the audacity to whisper, “If you just wallpaper your office right now, you’ll be more focused this afternoon.”
Right now. Mid-morning. Prime work hours. In full knowledge that I have zero business opening a can of DIY worms when I’ve already got a swarm of other responsibilities buzzing at my feet. And yet… I’m tempted. Because my neurospicy brain doesn’t do logic. It does vibes. It does impulse. It does irrational bargains disguised as helpful solutions.
This isn’t new. I’ve had full days derailed by the sudden, overwhelming need to clean my closet, reorganize digital files, or alphabetize my tea collection. None of these things are on my to-do list. None of them are urgent. But the idea shows up with the emotional urgency of a house fire, and suddenly my whole body believes that if I don’t do it right now, I will explode.
And the worst part? There’s a twisted logic to it. Because I know how my brain works. I know that an untidy space will haunt me. That visual chaos translates directly into mental fog. That if I don’t at least pretend to be nesting, I will spend the rest of the day doomscrolling and spiraling. So my brain packages the distraction as productivity. It dresses it up in the language of improvement. “You’re not avoiding work,” it says. “You’re preparing your environment for optimized focus.”
Yeah. Okay.
I’m holding a roll of wallpaper in my pajamas, three emails deep in avoidance, and trying to justify why climbing on furniture during office hours is a good use of my time. If this is optimization, I’m in hell.
This is the exhausting paradox of being neurodivergent and self-aware. I know what I’m doing. I know the signs. I can name the patterns as they’re happening. But that doesn’t stop the pull. That doesn’t erase the physical need to follow the distraction rabbit trail until it dead-ends in regret and a half-finished wall.
And don’t get me wrong—I’ll probably still do it. Because once the idea is in my head, it gnaws. It doesn’t go away until it’s addressed, even if that means everything else collapses in the meantime. But at least I’ll know it’s a trap. At least I can scream “THIS IS A LIE” into the void while unrolling my wallpaper and rescheduling my actual life.
And if my office ends up looking amazing? That’s not procrastination. That’s neurodivergent survival strategy.
Probably.
