I walk into the kitchen, and the cabinet doors are all hanging open, like someone forgot mid-movement what they were reaching for and just walked away. There are unfinished dishes piled in the sink—half a bowl of cereal here, a knife coated in peanut butter over there. The trash hasn’t been taken out in days, and the unmistakable splash of urine stains the toilet seat in the bathroom. I groan and close the cabinet doors one by one, knowing full well it wasn’t anyone else but me who left them open. It always is.
Living with ADHD is a lot like living with a roommate you never really see but constantly feel the presence of, and not always in pleasant ways. This roommate is always around, making messes you didn’t realize you were part of, leaving chaos in their wake while you’re left trying to make sense of it. And the most frustrating part? No matter how many times you ask them to change their ways, they never do. They never close the cabinet doors, never clean up after themselves, and you, as the responsible roommate, are left to deal with it—again.
But here’s the thing: I can’t actually evict this roommate. They’re part of the deal, written into the lease of my brain, so I’ve learned to cope. But coping is a delicate dance. It’s not like waking up from a bender where everything is foggy and can be laughed off as a one-time mistake. No, this is more like waking up every day to find your house inexplicably messy and realizing, once again, that you were the one who did it. You just don’t always remember, because your mind was already sprinting toward the next task before you finished the first. And it’s not laziness, it’s not carelessness. It’s just… the way things are.
ADHD is a clinical disorder, sure, but it feels like so much more than that when you’re trying to live with it. I’ll catch myself halfway through making dinner, only to realize I’ve forgotten to stir the pot because I got distracted by a text or a thought or something completely unrelated. Meanwhile, that invisible roommate is busy leaving their fingerprints on everything I touch, all while I’m chasing them down, trying to clean up the mess they leave behind. It’s like living in a house that’s always a bit disorganized, even when you’re trying your best to keep things neat.
And here’s the kicker—this roommate, for all their flaws, does some brilliant things, too. I’ll wake up in a panic, dreading the work deadline I’d been convinced I’d never meet, only to find that it’s not only done but more creative and inspired than I could have planned. I didn’t even realize I’d finished it the night before, in one of those hyper-focused bursts where time dissolves and the world narrows to a single point of intense productivity. It’s like this roommate who leaves dirty dishes everywhere also has these rare, magical moments where they save your life. They do things you couldn’t do on your own—solve problems in ways your conscious mind never could have. It’s almost like they’re a genius trapped in the body of a messy teenager, making sure the hard stuff gets done while ignoring all the little, daily annoyances.
But here’s the reality: for every project finished in a brilliant, last-minute sprint, there are ten forgotten to-do lists. For every flash of genius, there’s a week of frustration, of missed appointments, of half-finished tasks. This roommate doesn’t listen when you ask them to do the small things—pick up their clothes, take out the trash, close the cabinet doors. And you start to feel like no matter how well they pull off the big stuff, it’s not enough to make up for the mess they leave behind.
Living with ADHD is a constant negotiation, and it’s exhausting. You, as the responsible roommate, can set alarms, make lists, create routines. You can close the cabinet doors when they leave them open. You can wipe down the bathroom when it gets messy. But the truth is, you’ll always be cleaning up after them. You’ll always be chasing after your own mind, trying to maintain some semblance of order, knowing that no matter how hard you try, there will always be a little bit of chaos.
And that’s where the real heartache comes in. I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever be able to live with someone else—not just another roommate, but a partner, someone who’ll share their life with me. Because if I can’t handle the messiness of living with my ADHD, why would anyone else want to deal with it? If I can’t get the invisible roommate in my head to change their habits, why would anyone sign up for the job?
I’ve spent years trying to make peace with this. I know I’m more than my ADHD, that there’s so much more to me than forgotten appointments and scattered thoughts. But there’s a part of me that fears I’ll always be that person who leaves the cabinet doors open, who forgets other people use this restroom, who never quite gets it together. And maybe I will be. Maybe this is just how things are, and the best I can do is keep learning how to live with the messy roommate in my head.
But then I think about the good moments—the bursts of creativity, the deep focus that leads to something beautiful, the ideas that seem to come from nowhere. Those moments remind me that while my ADHD might make life more complicated, it also makes me who I am. So, I keep closing the cabinet doors, cleaning up the messes, and doing what I can to live with my unpredictable roommate. Because, in the end, they’re part of me. And maybe, just maybe, I’m learning how to live with them a little better every day.
The Roommate In My Head
