This title could even be about me.
But it’s not about me.
One of my best friends
I imagine this heading sounds strange! What does it mean to be one of the “best”? There is only one “best”—that’s what I was taught, too. But I no longer believe in that kind of exclusivity.
I have two examples to illustrate why. Both are scenarios of my own invention.
In the first case, let’s imagine two fathers—let’s call them Joe and Johnny. Each has a daughter. If someone were to ask them who the most beautiful girl in the land is, Joe would say it’s his daughter. Naturally, Johnny would name his own. In this situation, Joe and Johnny might even start arguing—or perhaps even come to blows—trying to force their will upon the other.
The solution I envision is for them to say to each other: “I respect that your daughter is the most beautiful to you. And mine is the most beautiful to me. Both of them are the most beautiful. And there is nothing wrong with that.” Why shouldn’t we accept that, when looking from a different perspective, we see something different?
I have two daughters. To me, both of them are the most beautiful.
The second example is about me.
A moment ago, I made a list of the friends I can count on at any time—and who can count on me at any time. I listed friends, not family members. There are eight names on that list.
It is important to note that, for me, the ability to rely on one another at any time isn’t the single most important characteristic of friendship. Though, of course, it is very important. Yet, alongside these names, there are 16 to 36 years of friendship recorded—an average of 26 years. And countless conversations. Countless joys and sorrows, too. Words spoken once that live on forever. Tears we felt welling up and fading away together. Lives and personalities that love and accept one another. Intertwined lives. Relationships that have stood the test of time and proven their depth.
How could I single out any one of those eight names as the “best”? To me, each of them is the best. I’ve come to realize that the word “best” only makes sense—at least to me—when we are sharing our lives in the present moment. When I am with you, you are the most important; you are the best. When I am with another—say, tomorrow—then *they* will be the best. In that moment. The word holds meaning only when I live in the moment. When I look at the history of our shared lives, the word loses its meaning for me.
The title of this post comes from one of my best friends.
My friend, Pista
I already wrote about him in the post titled “My Friend, Pista.”
We have known each other for 36 years.
I know a lot about him. And there are certainly things I don’t know—simply because I don’t need to.
There is one thing I have only known for about nine months. It turned out that the reason I didn’t know about it was—incredible as it may seem—that he didn’t know about it either. I was among the first he honored with his trust; once he realized it, he told me.
Tourette syndrome and motor ADHD.
Just a few words.
How much this explains to him, looking back from the age of fifty…
We all have our own struggles. Everyone is familiar with troubles and hardships—both in their own lives and in those of their neighbors. I wasn’t sure if those “few words” belonged on my blog.
But this friend of mine is a good soul. His story doesn’t end with this discovery. So, I knew right away that it belonged here, among my own stories.
I received an email from him three weeks ago.
That was when I thought that I understood and felt their despair…
I mentioned on the phone that I’ve started writing a blog. I haven’t told any of my acquaintances about it until now. The blog is in both Hungarian and English.
It’s about looking back on my life with the knowledge—gained only around the age of 50—that I have Tourette syndrome and motor ADHD.
I thought I’d send it to you now, at the beginning, since you’ve known me for quite a long time and I’d be interested to hear your take on it.
I’m not asking whether it’s “good,” but rather whether it feels authentic, whether you recognize me in the writing, and if there are any parts that seem like too much, too little, or simply not like me.
It wasn’t the first time in my life that someone honored me by asking for my opinion on a matter deeply important to them. That kind of trust placed in me has always moved me deeply. This instance was no exception. I always consider it a serious responsibility when asked for an opinion on a weighty topic. I always strive to live up to that trust to the best of my abilities. I threw myself into reviewing the writings, then wrote my reply to my friend.
I don’t want to quote the response I received in its entirety. However, what I share here demonstrates—without the need for further explanation—why this post came to be. Of course, being a writer myself, I will add a few thoughts of my own.
Here is the reply; I’ll let you know when I’m speaking again.
Now that you’ve shared your opinion, let me explain the background.
It wasn’t that I didn’t ask whether the blog was “good” because I didn’t care; I simply didn’t want to write a “good” blog (meaning: popular, sensationalist, mainstream-friendly, flashy, glitzy, etc.). The posts won’t be long, either, because an impatient person with ADHD like me wouldn’t read them. 
It all started—just as you wrote—with the fact that I didn’t display those particular signs. Yes, I spent half my life trying to mask it and struggling with it. I’ve reached a point now where I don’t want that for the rest of my life. I would like to be accepted just as I am—imperfect as I am.
So, I joined Hungarian, British, and American Tourette Facebook groups to learn more and see what could be improved.
I use the word “improved” because, while this condition results from a genetic mutation and is currently incurable, many aspects of it can be improved.
However, in these groups, I didn’t find new methods; instead, I found mostly desperate parents who had just been confronted with their child’s condition.
They don’t know how their child will start kindergarten, fit in at school, learn, find a job, live an independent life, and so on.
That was when I thought that I understood and felt their despair, but also that this isn’t a fatal condition—it is possible to live a “normal” life with it.
I took a big step today. I shared the link to my blog in the Hungarian Tourette group, thinking it would likely just get lost in the newsfeed anyway. Then I was a bit startled by the sudden influx of followers and the messages of thanks—people urging me to keep going because these were the very things they didn’t know: what the future holds.
In Hungary, once you turn 18, there is no diagnostic support or care available to you.
As an adult, you are left completely on your own. There is no care available. It’s pretty awful. I’ve decided to look into this issue, too, because I want to do something to bring about change. Someone with ADHD or Tourette’s isn’t stupid; they just function differently. They process a vast amount of stimuli and emotions much faster than others, which leads to sensory overload. And that’s the breaking point.
I’m picking up the pen again.
A few things about this piece immediately struck me.
Healthy self-deprecation. A desire to help. Selflessness. Clear thinking and mature reflection. Pista is my friend. A genuine person.
I am grateful for my life that he is one of my best friends.
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