Would taking ADHD drug Vyvanse make me a better writer? I wish
How taking Vyvanse affected my creativity
This 2013 essay, originally published on Medium, is an example of the type of subjects my ADHD Brain Diaries series will cover, starting in summer 2023.
I wish I had some Vyvanse is a running refrain in my mind whenever I get stuck with my writing—meaning it’s a constant running refrain in my mind. I’ve taken the ADD/ADHD drug all of four times in my life, but its mythology lives on in my memory as a panacea to every issue I face when I sit down at my keyboard. When I’m having a low moment, circling through over a dozen Word documents I’m “in the middle of” writing and editing, or browsing a seemingly endless array of open Firefox tabs, or checking my email one more time, or picking up my phone to play Words With Friends, it seems strikingly obvious that if I had a way to short circuit my annoyingly flighty brain and make it narrow in on a single piece of writing, I’d be zipping off stunning essays and stories that would gain me entry into any publication I so desired. As Joshua Foer wrote about his use of Adderall, “I felt like I was clearing away underbrush that had been obscuring my true capabilities.” Exactly. When I took Vyvanse, it helped me make important phone calls I’d been putting off and set in motion tasks I’d been afraid to even start. I’ve since built it up as a wonder drug and, conversely, allowed myself to feel like without it, I will never achieve my writing goals.
Putting that down in actual sentences, rather than fragments of magical thinking I usually reserve for bouts of insomnia, I admit the above sounds insane, or at least, fantastical. After all, Vyvanse is not going to do my writing for me (though I must admit that if that were an option, it just might be one I’d sign up for). Yet it feels so much easier to blame my blank pages, my half-completed stories, the untranscribed interviews waiting for me on my lack of suitable pharmaceutical intervention than on my own inertia.
My boyfriend is skeptical and suspicious of my vision of pharmaceutical utopia. I should be, too, because I’m the first to admit I have an additive personality, not to mention addiction in my family tree. But in my fantasy, I don’t want to take Vyvanse or any other ADD/ADHD drug forever; I want just enough to get me through the slump(s), to get the words flowing without regard for their potential outcome. To mangle a phrase, I want to write like no one’s watching—even though the whole point of publishing writing is to get people to watch, read, think, and engage. My problem is that all too often when I open my laptop, no matter what hour of the day or night (I’ve pretty much tried them all), that’s all I envision—people reading, then hating and judging. You might think that as someone who’s confessed to everything from a bukkake fantasy to being a hoarder I wouldn’t care what other people think, but just the opposite—I care way too much.
This is my second essay for Medium, but probably at least the twentieth I’ve contemplated writing. They say you should study your market before pitching, but even though here I don’t have to pitch anyone, I simply have to log in and make my words look pretty on the page, I still feel compelled before even starting to write to obsessively analyze what everyone else is writing. This is not necessarily a bad thing, because I’ve discovered some amazing writers and ideas (if I were rich I would totally fundAlex Kristofcak’s Get-Rid-Of-Crap-Every-Month club!). The problem is that instead of pausing at simple admiration, I take my reading a damning step further into the ultimate literary no-no of comparing myself to those I’m reading.That was so good, I don’t write in that style, why should I even bother sharing my thoughts?That’s actually a far tamer and kinder way of putting the negativity and self-doubt that cycle through my mind all too often. I go into a similar overkill mode when researching a topic or person I plan to write about or interview, obsessing that if I don’t find out everything ever written about my subject, I will be doing my writing a disservice.
The way this compulsion manifests goes something like this: even though this is a personal essay and therefore I’m trying to present my opinion, in order to make my opinion seem smarter, I felt the need to look up reviews of Vyvanse on WebMD, as if telling you that a 45-54-year-old female who’s been using the drug for less than a month wrote, “ Sometimes through[ou]t the day I have to stop and say wow” lends credence to what I’m trying to convey. Ultimately, this becomes its own kind of analysis paralysis, where the research supplants original thought, and leads me back to feeling like everything anyone could possibly say on the topic has already happened, so I should just move on. Getting over that hurdle requires the will to draw a line and say “Enough,” to trust that your thoughts are worthy—and so are other people’s. It requires believing that writing isn’t a zero sum game full of winners and losers, but a creative process full of winners and winners.
Part of the beauty and the agony of writing is that as an author, you have absolutely zero control over what people think of what you’ve written. All you have control over is what you write next. In a way, that’s utterly fitting, because I believe reading is just as much of a creative act as writing. Readers bring their own emotions and backgrounds and biases, as well they should. That’s not to say writing can’t be improved by constructive criticism, but at the end of the day (or the page), ultimately any judgment of any art form is always going to be subjective, which means as a writer, you have to believe so strongly in your words and the necessity of putting them out into the world you don't care (too much) about what other people take away from them. That’s not to say you don’t care at all, or can’t use writing as a way of challenging people, pushing their buttons and boundaries, making them laugh, cry, squirm, turning them, etc. You’re allowed to have a specific goal or outcome in mind with any given piece of writing, but you can’t force someone else to come to the conclusion you were seeking. Art is different from propaganda or mind control. If they don’t have your desired reaction, that’s okay too. Maybe better than okay, because rather than simply being dictated to by your work (“feel this!”), readers are transforming your work by the very act of processing it through their own lens.
In between typing this essay, I’m drinking coffee. So far I’m on my second of my four daily cups. That’s the strongest stimulant I allow myself these days. In lieu of Vyvanse, I have tried what feel like countless ways of “forcing” myself to write. I’ve tried working at coffeeshops, listening to music, utter quiet. I’ve tried writing prompts. I’ve tried probably a whole bookcase’s worth of books on writing. I’ve tried deadlines and advances. I’ve tried visualizing my byline in coveted publications. I’ve tried pep talks and angry tirades. I’ve tried hate reading. I’ve tried therapy. I’ve tried meditation.
What I haven’t tried recently is going to a psychiatrist. The last time I did (last year), I got a legitimate ADD diagnosis, without having to beg or con or exaggerate. I was prescribed Adderall, which helped a little, but didn’t have the miraculous effects I’ve subsequently placed like a halo around my vision of Vyvanse. Adderall wasn’t enough. I didn’t want a little boost; I wanted something that would turn me into a new, better, less fearful person. I haven’t gone back or found a new doctor because my hunch is that there isn’t actually a pill that can do what I want my hallowed mythical all-powerful pill to do. There isn’t something I can swallow that will instantly make me so confident I can’t even spare a thought for what anyone else might think. There isn’t an insta-cure that’s going to make the words fly out from under my fingers so fast my mind can’t keep up with it. There isn’t a medical intervention for being, well, me.
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