When is there time?

I don't complain writing fiction is time-consuming, but I do cite it here as a fact. I've always been slow. People have complained about that with me in grade school, high school, and on the job.

Persons with ADHD are regarded as slow, never mind the several reasons why. It's a symptom. When I was thirteen, I should have known better than to query my Mom about it. Though it wasn't exactly eye-witness the confirmation I wanted. I already knew it as a constant, inexplicable fact of my life. However, at that age, I had trouble communicating. By asking her for my opinion was my lead-in to pleading with her for help.

She confirmed what I already knew by laughing in my face. "You are so slow." A lesson reiterated to me then was how unhelpful she would be: medically, emotionally and informatively.

I wish I could say that I reconciled with her before she died, but that wouldn't be true. We had too much baggage to unpack, and too much of it I couldn't open due to a combination of her temper and her fragility. I mourned her death, but the way I felt it most was in lost hope.

That doesn't really apply here, much. As I try to find time to write, I'm on the line between middle-age and senior years. I've always tried to ignore my growing years. However, now that I'm best organized for work, and ADHD and associated problems are treated, I'm finding that I'm getting slower, and time is going by faster.

At least I've been walking once an hour for ten minutes. I've been keeping up with grocery shopping, cooking my meals, dishes, laundry, vacuuming the floor, but I can't find the time to write. Last night I was wiped out by six o'clock. I'm mean catatonically tired. I hope I've got everything else done, but for how long?