How Eli's AuDHD brain turns a simple Zoom call into a high-stakes trial before 10 a.m.
Before I even open my eyes, my body is acting like the first appointment of the day is some kind of boss battle. It is only a 10 a.m. Zoom call, but my nervous system treats it like a life-or-death mission.
By 7:30, I am already pacing the house, rehearsing disasters that haven’t happened, and trying to convince myself that this is normal.
If you have ever felt wiped out by something that is still hours away, come sit with me for a minute. You might see your own morning in mine.
The First Appointment of the Day
My name is Eli, and my brain treats the first appointment of the day like everything is riding on it. Classic all or nothing thinking that warps my perspective before I even start.
Today, it is a Zoom call at 10:00. Friendly client. Nothing “high stakes.” At least that’s what everyone else would call it.
My body does not get that memo.
And if you live in a brain like mine, your body probably doesn’t either.
Waking Up Already Behind
I wake up at 7:30 with anxiety in my belly beginning to stir.
My nervous system acts like we should be further along;
we should be out the door already. I hope we’re not late again,
like last week, for the company meeting.
And what happens when I do get there?
You are going to forget something.
Or say something wrong. Or freeze.
Or talk too much. Or not enough. Or…
I stare at the ceiling and try to force an affirmation intervention between the twisting vines of doubt curling around anything that looks like confidence.
“It is just a call,” I whisper to myself. “You like this person. They like you. You have done this a hundred times.”
“But what if this is the day my streak ends?” says catastrophe.
My body replies, “We’d better be ready. Here’s some adrenaline.”
My stomach joins in with, “No sundae is complete without nausea topping to complete the experience.”
I have barely been awake for three minutes, and it already feels like the day may be setting me up.
Mornings and Momentum
Here’s the thing about mornings.
Once I’m moving, I can usually keep moving. Momentum is my friend.
But starting feels like trying to get an elephant out of the mud.
My brain doesn’t glide into the day. It clunks and sputters.
And the first appointment of the day is when the train has to be cruising, with everything firing.
At 8:00, I am sitting at the table, hunched in my oldest hoodie, staring at my mug like it holds the secret to life. The coffee is lukewarm. I keep forgetting to drink it because my mind is busy running simulations.
What if the internet cuts out?
What if it doesn’t?
What if I forget their name?
What if I say the wrong name?
What if I blank on what we talked about last time?
What if I blank when it really counts?
What if my face looks weird on camera?
What if my face looks weird regardless?
What if they can tell I am tired?
What if they think I don’t care?
What if they think I am unprofessional?
What if they don’t respect me?
What if I accidentally talk over them?
What if I need them to repeat themselves?
What if there is an awkward silence?
What if they think I’m dumb?
Every “what if” stacks like dishes in the sink.
None of them huge on their own, but together, it looks like a mess I don’t have the energy to clean up.
If you’re a person who can feel exhausted by problems that have not even happened yet, you already know this scenario.
Executive Function and the Spinning Wheel of Doom
By 8:30, I have checked the calendar three times. The appointment is still at 10. Shocking.
I open the notes I keep on them.
Read them.
Close them.
Reopen them.
Highlight a sentence for no reason.
The autism wants everything “just right.” The ADHD brain keeps wandering off like a kid in a grocery store staring at the cereal aisle.
Focus.
Lose focus.
Panic about losing focus.
Try harder to focus.
Lose focus again.
Executive function startup lag. That is the official term.
In my head, it is “the spinning wheel of doom.”
I know what I need to do. I even want to do it. There is just this invisible wall between “knowing” and “doing.” That gap fills with static, guilt, and self-talk that sounds suspiciously like every teacher who ever called me “smart but unmotivated.”
To fill the gap between “I know there is something I need to do” and “I am actually doing it,” anxiety steps in like an over caffeinated project manager.
“Since you are not doing the thing yet, here is a slideshow of every way it could all go to hell.”
Helpful.
Stuck in the Waiting Room of My Own House
At 9:00, the anxiety ramps up.
Now it is close enough that time feels less like infinity and more like a funnel that narrows as the appointment gets closer. Too early to log on, too late to fully relax.
I try to watch a video. I pause it after thirty seconds because I cannot follow the plot.
I try to read. I reread the same paragraph five times. The words move through my eyes but never land in my brain.
My body slips into “waiting room” mode, except the waiting room is my whole house.
I keep glancing at the clock, each time feeling a little jolt of electricity.
9:02.
9:07.
9:13.
I pace from room to room without really seeing them.
The unwashed dishes, the laundry basket, the crooked picture frame on the wall.
All of it fades into the background behind one loud fact: I have a call at 10.
It feels like standing at the edge of a cliff in the fog. I cannot see the exact drop. I just know it is there, somewhere in front of me.
People tell me I am “good at this.” Good at listening, good at talking, good at showing up. They see the version of me that is in motion, already engaged, already warmed up.
What they do not see is how my brain treats each first appointment like a performance review.
Even if the other person never says that.
Even if they are kind.
Even if it is a casual check-in.
My nervous system hears: First appointment of the day equals first test of the day. Pass or fail. No pressure.
If you have ever walked into a “simple” meeting and felt your entire childhood report card trailing behind you, you get it.
Gas and Brake at the Same Time
9:25. My heart is in my throat.
“Why are you like this?” I mutter, which, it turns out, is not soothing.
I stand up.
Sit down.
Stand up again.
My legs want to pace.
My joints feel like wet sandbags.
Chronic fatigue plus anxiety is a fun combo. It is like pressing the gas and the brake at the same time.
Part of me wants to cancel. Draft the email in my head.
“Hey, something came up. Can we reschedule?”
Nothing has actually come up, of course. The thing that “came up” is anxiety. But you cannot write that in a professional email.
Instead, I walk to the kitchen and make tea, even though I still have half a cup of cold coffee on the table. It is not about the drink. I need a ritual. Something small and low demand that lets me move without needing to “perform.”
Boil water.
Get mug.
Drop teabag.
Breathe.
I watch the steam curl up. For a second, I remember that I actually like my work. I care about these conversations. This is not just a “task.” It is a real connection with a real person.
That reminder helps. Not a lot. But enough that the volume drops from “screaming in my head” to “loudly talking.”
Preflight Checklist
At 9:40, I set up my desk.
Laptop on the stand.
Notes on the left.
Water on the right.
Headphones untangled, which feels like a small miracle.
The room smells faintly like the lemon cleaner I used last night. My chair creaks once when I sit and settle. The ordinary details calm me a little. Reality feels less like a threat and more like a series of objects I can understand.
I check my camera. I do not love what I see. I tilt the screen. The lighting softens. My face looks slightly less like “cryptid caught on security camera.”
Good enough.
My brain runs its diagnostics.
Did you review your notes? Yes.
Is your mic on? Probably. Check again.
Is your internet okay? Maybe run a speed test.
What if Zoom has an update? Maybe open it now, just in case.
It feels like preparing for takeoff, but emotionally, I am only flying to the grocery store.
All of this is my nervous system trying not to be caught off guard. As if one missed detail will mean catastrophe.
The closer the clock gets to 10, the more my brain tries to control every variable it can reach, because it cannot control the ones that actually matter.
How the other person will feel.
What they might need.
What might come up that I do not expect?
Autism does not vibe well with uncertainty. ADHD does not vibe well with “sit still and wait.” Together, they throw a party called “anticipation anxiety,” and I am the unwilling host, passing out snacks to feelings I never invited.
Clicking Join
9:58.
Now my whole body buzzes. This is the part that confuses me the most. The appointment has not even started, yet my adrenaline peaks like I am already in conflict or danger.
I hover over the Zoom link, a few practice clicks off to the side, then click it at 9:59, because being “right on time” somehow feels safer than being too early or late. Perfectionism in a trench coat.
The screen loads.
My own face appears first, which is always a jump scare.
Then, a second later, theirs.
“Hey Eli,” they say, smiling. “Good to see you.”
And instantly, like someone flipping a switch, half the anxiety drops.
Not all of it. I still feel wired, a little stiff, slightly too aware of my eyebrows. But the worst of the storm is over.
Because now I am in it.
Doing the thing.
My brain finally has something concrete to focus on instead of chasing ghosts.
This happens every time.
The buildup is brutal. The actual thing is usually better.
If you are nodding right now, you probably know that exact whiplash.
After the Storm
After the call, I sit there for a minute in the quiet.
Same chair.
Same room.
Same body.
The only difference is that the appointment has moved from “future” to “past.”
The buzzing in my chest fades to a low hum.
The room looks less like a stage and more like my normal messy office again.
My shoulders drop an inch.
I rub my eyes and say out loud, “So it is not so much the appointment I am afraid of. It is the space before it.”
That clicks.
It is the anticipation.
The unknown.
The transition from stillness to action.
The way my brain tries to load every possible script at once because it does not trust that I will be able to improvise in the moment.
Of course, I get more anxious as I get closer to the first appointment of the day. That is the moment when all the variables converge, and my brain is trying to juggle them with low dopamine, a history of being called “too much” or “too flaky,” and a deep fear of letting people down.
Seeing it clearly does not magically make it vanish. But it changes how I talk to myself about it.
Giving My Brain a Smaller Job
Now, when I see that anxiety ramping up, I try to say:
“Okay. My brain is preloading. It thinks it is helping. Let’s give it a tiny job.”
Make tea.
Open the notes.
Set up the desk.
Take three slow breaths.
Sometimes I add, “You have done this before,” even if some part of me rolls its eyes.
I still get nervous. My heart still races. My thoughts still do laps around the track.
But I stop reading that as proof that something is wrong with me.
Instead, I read it as proof that my AuDHD brain is trying very hard to protect me, using a system that happens to be loud, jumpy, and terrible at timing.
And if you recognize yourself anywhere in this, maybe your brain is not broken either.
Maybe it is trying to protect you, too.
Just in a way that needs a little translation.
Thanks for being you,
Brian
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