The Fading Tide
Every morning I wake to the quiet hum of fluorescent lights in the car dealership showroom, not the roar of ocean waves. As the finance assistant, I crunch numbers and shuffle papers, the child I once was hidden behind tax forms. I remember lying on the warm sand of a beach, drawing whales on crumpled notebook pages, believing I could chart the ocean's secrets. But life taught me differently: bills and deadlines pulled me away from ink and imagination.
In college, I majored in business because it felt safe, even as my heart doodled turtles in the margins of my notebooks. Years later, I still work with figures - a bookkeeper for a cabinet company at night and the dealership finance desk by day - my head always buzzing like a storm. There are promotions and a tidy house and two bright-eyed children, but my sketches remain buried in a box under the bed. I am proud of the stability I've built, but if I'm honest, the proudest part of me has shriveled away.
Anxiety lurks in every quiet moment. I make obsessive lists and reread car reports until my hands shake. My colleagues notice my pacing and my husband asks if I'm okay.
Finally, a doctor gives names to the shifting puzzle pieces of my mind: ADHD and autism. The diagnoses explain why my brain plays pinball between tasks and why even mundane conversations can exhaust me. It feels like a new map of long-submerged currents has surfaced, helping me understand the dreams I silently set aside.