Somebody once called the law a jealous mistress, although I can’t recall who (maybe it was the guy whose dead body is on display at University College London and in a photo on page 330 of my Property textbook). In any case, it’s totally true. And I’m afraid my mistress is going to dump me unless I can get my hands on a legal source of Adderall.
Anyone who assumes I spend all my spare time agonizing over men is only half right.
In reality, I roam Chicago’s streets on a quest for two things: (i) a husband; and (ii) an Adderall prescription. I wouldn’t be opposed to killing both birds with one stone. Though a shrink might make a depressing husband, so it’s probably best to keep my searches separate.
I’ll freely admit (from the safety of my pseudonym) that I’m no stranger to self-medicating with other people’s pharmaceuticals. Throughout childhood, my grandmother had a kitchen cabinet bursting with Valium from a rather diverse group of doctors (I remain awed that she was able to wrangle benzos from her dermatologist). In high school, so many kids were willing to sell their Ritalin that it seemed harder to avoid than obtain (although some of the sources were admittedly dubious—my dad once found a stash of yellow pills in my jewelry box and claimed a pharmacist identified them as blood pressure medication). In college, my boyfriend of three years hit the jackpot by securing an ADHD diagnosis from his psychiatrist dad, which meant constant access to (genuine) Ritalin and Adderall.
As a result, I’ve logged many hours studying, writing papers, taking tests, and grinding out work product while enjoying the benefits of contraband ADD meds. In fact, I’m pretty sure Adderall was more integral than BarBri to my having passed the bar exam.
But here’s the problem. There’s an inverse relationship between age and access to Adderall. I didn’t have much of a problem during law school, because my younger sister was still in college back then. But now that she graduated from the ceaselessly gushing geyser of Adderall that is Miami of Ohio, my supply has dried up—and the timing could not be worse.
Think about it. How am I supposed to grind through 2,350 billables a year while squeezing in enough gym visits to keep my body dating-worthy and finding the time and energy to be meaningfully present in bars and other places where I can encounter potential husbands?
I’ve been left with no recourse but to try to locate a legal source of Adderall. Overall, it seems to be the least risky option. I mean, I’ve racked my brain, but I can’t come up with a professionally acceptable way to ask a co-worker if they know where I could score some Adderall. Nor do I think it’s a good idea to linger outside of the nearest high school, casually asking students whether they’ve got any Adderall for sale.
What’s even more shameful, I’ve already encountered my first major roadblock. At my bi-weekly shrink appointment last week, I launched into a soliloquy about the attention issues “I’ve always dealt with but have been too shy to mention.” I cited the negative write-ups in my grade school report cards (e.g. “[LF10] likes to entertain others and it becomes distracting during class” and “[LF10] can’t seem to control her talking and this is a problem”) as early evidence of ADD.
But, much to my dismay, my doctor didn’t buy it (I guess I’m the one lawyer out there who sucks at lying). When I finished my inspired performance, she stared at me for a few uncomfortable seconds and then explained, “I’m very hesitant to prescribe ADD medication to high-achieving and high-performing people like you. It seems to me that you’re seeking artificial cognitive enhancement rather than treatment for an actual disorder.” With that, I slunk out of her office, uneasy with the feeling of having been caught red-handed.
I then spent the rest of the afternoon at work completely distracted. Which of course made me feel rather triumphant because my inability to focus on anything other than obtaining Adderall seemed to be clear evidence of ADD. There must be a doctor out there who would agree that I have ADD. I’m going to have to find him or her, schedule an appointment, and then stick to a script that I will develop with the help of the DSM-IV. With any luck, this will work. And hopefully this doesn’t constitute doctor shopping—wait, does it?!