There’s an old story about two wolves fighting inside each of us. One represents kindness, the other anger. The one that wins is the one you feed.
That’s all very profound.
Unfortunately, my brain has slashed the internal budget, and I can no longer afford the zoo bills for two argumentative Canis lupus.
I don’t have two wolves.
I have four Petes.
They all live inside my head, they all think they’re in charge, and they hold regular committee meetings. Sadly, nobody ever bothers to appoint a chairperson, so very little gets agreed.
Meet the Committee
First, there’s Adult Pete.
He’s the one who pays the bills, books the dentist, washes the car, remembers to renew the insurance, and insists vegetables are an important part of a balanced diet.
He’s sensible.
Nobody likes him very much.
Then there’s Five-Year-Old Pete.
He wants to visit every museum, gets ridiculously excited by sweet shops, believes every bookshop deserves “just a quick look”, could happily spend an hour staring at fossils, and firmly believes chores should be postponed until after another game of Minecraft.
He’s also convinced that pudding is a perfectly acceptable main course.
Autistic Pete is a man of systems.
He likes routines. Autistic Pete alphabetises things that don’t really need alphabetising. He becomes mildly irritated if someone uses his favourite coffee mug. He’s already planned what we’re doing next Tuesday.
It’s currently Saturday.
And finally, there’s ADHD Pete.
He has absolutely no interest in Tuesday.
Or Saturday.
Or chronology in general.
He’s currently suggesting we learn Norwegian, buy a new soldering iron, reorganise the bookshelves, write half a blog post, and spend the afternoon researching medieval trebuchets because… well… why not?
Committee Meetings
This arrangement presents certain challenges.
Adult Pete decides it’s time to review the pension.
ADHD Pete has just discovered lock-picking and won’t stop talking about it.
Five-Year-Old Pete wants to watch Minecraft videos on YouTube.
Autistic Pete simply wants everyone to sit down, stop interrupting each other, and quit moving the metaphorical furniture.
Planning a day out requires unanimous agreement.
In fifty-six years, unanimous agreement has been achieved approximately never.
For a long time, I assumed maturity meant eventually becoming one consistent person. I imagined that one day I’d simply know what needed doing and quietly get on with it, without internal debate or distraction.
Instead, I’ve become a reasonably competent referee and arbitration expert.
Growing Older Without Growing Up
I’ve written before about growing old without growing up.
Perhaps this is why.
The five-year-old never actually leaves.
He simply has to negotiate with the adult who now owns a mortgage.
The more I think about it, the less I believe this is really an article about ADHD or autism.
It’s about identity.
We like to imagine that healthy adults are internally consistent. They know exactly who they are, what they want, and why they make the decisions they do. They stride confidently through life without ever arguing with themselves over whether to tackle the washing up or spend three hours learning about medieval castle architecture because one interesting fact led to another.
I don’t think that’s how people work.
I think we’re all a collection of competing ideas, instincts, responsibilities, hopes, fears, and impulses. Most people have an internal dialogue.
Mine just sounds more like a committee meeting where everyone insists they’re the chair.
Getting diagnosed with autism and ADHD didn’t create those different voices. They’d been there all along. The diagnoses simply handed me a couple of name badges. Suddenly the part of me that craved routine made sense. So did the part that could cheerfully demolish that routine because it had discovered an exciting new hobby before breakfast.
Perhaps that’s true for all of us.
We’re not contradictions waiting to be resolved.
We’re complicated people learning to live with all the different versions of ourselves, each convinced they know best.
The Bookshop Test
The other day I wandered into a bookshop intending “just to have a look”.
Those are among the most dangerous words in the English language.
Adult Pete quietly reminded me that I already own enough unread books to last until at least the next ice age.
ADHD Pete had discovered three entirely new interests before I’d even reached the history section.
Autistic Pete was admiring how beautifully everything had been organised. Whoever decided biographies should be shelved alphabetically deserved a small medal. He’d also straightened three piles of books and answered enough questions from other customers that I suspect at least one of them thought he worked there.
Meanwhile, Five-Year-Old Pete had wandered off to the science section wearing the expression of someone who’d just discovered dinosaurs for the very first time.
“LOOK! DINOSAURS!”
I left with two books I hadn’t intended to buy, a bag of jelly beans from the sweet shop next door, and absolutely no regrets.
Perhaps growing up was never about evicting the child inside us.
Perhaps it was never about becoming one perfectly sensible, endlessly responsible adult.
Maybe it’s about learning to let every version of yourself have a voice.
Adult Pete makes sure the bills get paid.
Autistic Pete stops life descending into complete chaos.
ADHD Pete reminds me that curiosity is very rarely wasted.
And Five-Year-Old Pete still has the wonderful ability to point excitedly at something unexpected and remind the rest of us that the world is still full of amazing things.
I wouldn’t want to silence any of them.
I just try very hard not to let ADHD Pete chair the meetings.