Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 137135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
ADHD for sure. No doubt about that. Hell, that was easy enough to pick up on because I’m diagnosed and medicated for it myself. But she also had something going on much deeper than that, less common and harder to diagnose —although ADHD is way less frequently diagnosed in women than in men and has only just recently been taken more seriously. She has an anxiety disorder of some sort, but I couldn’t even hypothesize without gaining more insight, without actually speaking with her and asking questions that would narrow down what was really going on in that fast-paced mind of hers.
I can’t make an educated guess without at least a little information on the subject. I was only on the very first step of the scientific method, as fucked-up as it was: Observation—getting an overall impression of the woman herself. And after I did that for a couple of nights, never once making my presence known, I moved on to the second step: Formulating a question. And for me, there were many.
Who is this girl?
Why is she here, dumpster diving for plants? Dumpster diving at all?
And the one I was most interested to delve into: What’s making her thoughts so erratic? My recognition of the simple answer to that question was immediate after I asked it: Adult Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder. And she was definitely the combined type, not just ADD but full-on ADHD. The way she spoke out loud even when she believed no one was around to listen was evidence of that. Not to mention, she was inside a metal container of trash at almost one in the morning, digging for buried treasure.
But what about the less obvious thing going on with her? ADHD would explain her inattention, her impulsivity to jump into a huge garbage container and look around. But what made her keep coming back? Night after night, then taking the time and focus—something that would be very tough for people like us—to learn schedules, look for patterns, figuring out when the best days and times to come for the biggest payoff would be?
And now that I knew the real question I wanted an answer to, along with at least a limited amount of evidence to refer to, I could move on to step three of the scientific method—Form a Hypothesis, or an educated guess—before following it up with step four: Experimentation.
The mere thought of that was enough to make my cock swell to half-mast.
My hypothesis for the woman currently trying her best not to stare open-mouthed at me as I walk back toward her across the parking lot is that she most likely lives with the exhausting reality of an anxiety disorder. I could mark off agoraphobia, since she clearly had no problem leaving her house. She could have a specific phobia, but that didn’t seem right, since again, she has no issues getting into a dumpster, where bugs and critters and all sorts of germs could be.
Generalized anxiety disorder? Maybe.
Social anxiety disorder? Very good possibility, seeing as she’s always alone when she’s here.
Panic disorder? She could, but even in the craziness that just happened that required her to be rescued like one of her plants, she didn’t have a panic attack.
There’s quite a few more on the list of anxiety disorders, but my best guess, my official hypothesis before actually speaking with her about… literally anything other than the legalities of trespassing on private property, would be—
“You had all that in your car?” Her curious voice cuts off my own rapid thoughts.
I glance down at the few items in my hands before looking back up at her, perched at the top of the steps, her arm stretched out and resting on her bent knees, palm up. Just how I left her when I told her not to move. She didn’t move a muscle except to keep her eyes on me.
Obedient little sweetheart.
“Earth to Mr. Poppins. You okay, there?” she prompts, and I narrow my eyes.
Although a bit mouthy.
“Mr. Poppins?” I ask, climbing up the steps and taking a seat on the one just below hers.
She gives a little snort of laughter. “Yeah, because you must have a Mary Poppins bag in that big truck of yours if you had a whole-ass manicure kit and first aid supplies.”
I smile behind my mask, which I always keep on while working here part time a couple of evenings a week. I don’t need this job—far from it, at least from a financial standpoint. But I enjoy having it to pass some of my time after I get off from my real job. If not, there would be entirely too much free time for these idle hands of mine. But it’s also my quiet time in which I don’t normally have to speak to anyone except for in the occasional meeting. I spend all day talking to so many people, and if I were to be recognized here, it would cease to be my oasis of mindless tasks.