They called me slow. Funny that I even remember that.
Yep, I’m in my thirties still lamenting on the indignities of grammar school bullying.
Sigh.
Seriously, though, that’s a cut-throat world. I
couldn’t keep up with the cliques, the social cues that hovered just over my
head, the expectations and assignments. I was in a foreign land feigning
fluency in the language. My peers knew it, too.
I was the last to get my milk at lunch and the last to
clean up. I was always behind on assignments or forgot them altogether, to the
point where my teachers required me to have my Pepto-Bismol-pink assignment
notebook signed. I forgot a lot of things, actually. On free dress day, I was
the kid who showed up in uniform. I forgot to get my tests and permission slips
signed. My fifth grade English teacher threatened me with detention if I forgot
to bring my red pen to class one more
time. She said she was doing me a favor and teaching me responsibilities so
that as an adult I wouldn’t forget important things (like always having a red
pen on me?). Spoiler alert: it didn’t work.
Ask anyone in my life if Mrs. M scared me straight in
the fifth grade. Anyone who’s ever asked me (and rightfully so) if I called
that person yet, saw that they called, or if I remember to bring X, you know
what I’m talking about. In my “grown up” life I forget things. My keys aren’t
where I swore I left them. Laundry hovers in various stages of completion, the
dirty sometimes converging with the clean. I start things that I don’t finish.
Making phone calls makes me squirm and I’m ALWAYS late. You might be thinking
every busy, tired, frazzled, mom, insert-situation-here does these things. We
all have our moments and our “stuff”. Nobody has all their shit together off of
Facebook. At the risk of sounding dramatic, though, since kindergarten I’ve noticed
that I struggle with things that most people can accomplish without so much
thought. I’m not late because I don’t respect time and I’m inconsiderate. I
don’t miss calling you back because I don’t care about you.
Detention didn’t teach me to stop forgetting things
any more than those pink walk-of-shame tardy slips taught me to get it together
and be punctual. Why didn’t these punitive measures work? Was I a kid who just
couldn’t learn her lesson?
On the contrary, I was compliant to a fault. I wanted
to do what I was supposed to do. I feared getting in trouble and I wanted to
please people and meet their expectations. Spoiler alert number 2: that hasn’t
changed much either. I didn’t start remembering things or better organizing. It
wasn’t that I didn’t want to do theses things; it was because I couldn’t.
My peers were right; I was “slow”. I froze up timed
tests. I stayed after school to finish my work. I looked around in a panic when
the teacher announced five minutes left to finish the project, observing my
class mates gluing on the last pompom or flipping over worksheets, when I wasn’t
even half way through.
“What were you doing all that time?” the teacher would
ask. I didn’t know. I still don’t
A child knows when they’re different. Instead of
denying that difference, our task is to create a world where differences are recognized
as assets. It’s a tough sell when peers can be so cruel, homing in on any
difference they can sense. Some girls dream of becoming princesses, movie
stars, dancers. I dreamt of becoming “normal”. I tried to learn the language,
but the accent grew thicker as the years passed and the demands increased. I
concluded I was just stupid.
I was wrong. None of the labels I was given by peers
or that I gave myself were accurate: Slow, stupid, inconsiderate, flaky,
absent-minded. It took nearly three and a half decades to discover the correct
label for my penchant for daydreaming, inattention to detail, forgetfulness,
and overwhelm-shut down cycle. Three and a half decades to find a label that
fits, that explains everything. Now I know this label is ADHD (Attention
Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, inattentive type, previously known as ADD).
ADHD runs in my family, so it’s not like I didn’t know
what it was. I’d even suspected it on and off throughout my adulthood, every
time I reached the next arbitrary age by which I predicted I’d “have it all
together”. But whenever I mentioned it, I’d hear some version of “Oh, you’re
just a busy mom. It’s called pregnancy brain. It’s called ‘mom brain’. You’re
just tired. Cut down on caffeine (wait, what?) You just need to get more
organized and just do it. Oh, everyone thinks they have that nowadays.” In
fact, when my counselor presented the diagnosis, calling me “textbook”, I was
hesitant to accept it. Wasn’t I just making excuses? Not because I in anyway
think ADHD is an excuse (or used as one), but years of internalizing the
message of, “if I would just try harder” …. made me second guess. Was I
claiming a diagnosis that I didn’t “earn”?
That last paragraph might sound really strange. I’m
making an ADHD diagnosis feel like a gift or a badge of honor. Well, it is. Finally,
my counselor got me to recognize and accept that I’ve been struggling with ADHD
for my entire life. The struggles came to my attention when I started
kindergarten and was met simultaneously with new responsibility and exposure to
the development of same-age peers. By first grade I was behind, and they wanted
to send me to a “special school;”. Yes, that’s really what they called it. I
hate even typing it. My parents kept me at my grammar school. I’m very
fortunate for my parents’ endless patience. Even without a diagnosis or much
understanding of special needs or outside support surrounding them, they didn’t
blame me for my difficulties. They saw how hard I tried and encouraged me to do
my best.
Let’s circle back to why I’m referring to my ADHD
diagnosis as a gift and a badge of honor.
When I was diagnosed my first thought was, “So I’m not
just stupid?” The diagnosis, once I “claimed” it, was nothing short of
validating. My peers ran both literal and figurative laps around me (sometimes
armed with pinesol spray and spit balls, but that’s another story for another
day. Or not.) not because they were smarter or more enlightened. Their brains worked
differently than mine. My brain worked differently from theirs. The teachers
were annoyed with me not because I was a pain in the ass kid (although you
might have to confirm that with my brother) but because I couldn’t keep up with
my lessons. I fidgeted with my pencils and erasers, and I was always staring
out the window. The math examples on the board didn’t make sense not because I
wasn’t paying attention, but because I am part of the 20 percent of auditory
learners. I don’t run out of mental energy after social engagements because I’m
antisocial, I don’t forget thank-you cards because, I’m ungrateful or show up
15 minutes late because I’m rude.
I don’t love these things about myself and if they
were easy to change I would, but that’s another way my ADHD diagnosis has freed
me. I can now work on treating my ADHD so it doesn’t interfere so much in my
day to day life. I can use systems to help me focus and keep things straight. I
write and color code everything in a paper calendar because the notifications I
set on my phone fly out of my brain the second my screen dims. I check and
double check appointments. I make definitive plans and try to follow a routine.
Everything must be gotten together the night before. I team up with other
homeschoolers for accountability. These tools and others are just that – tools.
It doesn’t mean I magically have it all together (who does?). I still have ADHD
and I’m still trying. That’s where the badge of honor comes in. All those years
I struggled to get through school (and life) thinking I was just dumb and slow,
I had legitimate difficulties to work with. I was trying plenty hard enough
even when it didn’t seem like it.
My ADHD diagnosis answers my life long question of why
can’t I just do it? It helps me
understand why I would flip through the science project syllabus given at the
start of the school year, get knocked over by a wave of overwhelm, shut down
and shove it into my backpack where I’d try to forget about it until after Christmas
break Inevitably, I’d wind up cramming a semester-long project into a week,
complete with many late, tearful nights. Rinse and repeat year after year. I
turned in a lot of tear stained papers in middle school. Breaking down projects
into more manageable tasks doesn’t happen in my unmedicated brain. I see and
think about EVERYTING I HAVE TO DO, LIKE ALL THE THINGS. Then I don’t know
where to start so I start with reading a book and blocking it out. The cards I
write sit on my kitchen table so long it would just look weird to send it now.
I mean all the steps required to write a card, seal an envelope, address it,
and put it in the mail box.
I asked my therapist why I wasn’t diagnosed if I was
so textbook? Sure, when I was growing up there was less awareness and accurate
testing, but through college and adulthood I questioned. I’ve had psych evals
that showed major depressive disorder and generalized anxiety disorder, but not
ADHD. She postulated that current testing doesn’t necessarily “catch” ADHD as
it presents in adult women, especially without the hyperactive peace. We’ve
learned, to a degree, to compensate. Now I take a low dose stimulant and work
with my therapist on coping skills. Sometimes I wonder which came first: depression
and anxiety or ADHD. I’ll never know, but I do know years of being bullied for something
you can’t control, and thinking you’re stupid and falling behind (no matter how
many times my parents told me otherwise) does things to your psych.
Which brings me to my final point. Parents, teach your
kids about differences and special needs even (especially) if it doesn’t affect
your inner circle. Parents of kids with ADHD, you’re doing fine. It’s not easy,
but the most important thing is your child knowing home is always a safe place where
they’re loved and accepted. Parents of kids with ADHD, you may struggle with whether
to medicate. You know your child best and don’t do anything you’re
uncomfortable with, no matter what anyone says. Maybe for your child it won’t
be called for. But if it is and you do go the medication route, please, please DO
NOT FEEL GUILTY! Don’t worry about what people think. They don’t know your
situation. I know giving your child a controlled substance isn’t easy and it’s not
a decision you’d take lightly. But for some people with ADHD therapies simply
aren’t enough. They NEED medication to level the playing field and give their
brain the stimulation it is biologically unable to produce on its own. And you
know what? That’s okay! If that doesn’t convince you to send your guilt packing,
parents, how about this. I wish I’d
had access to this medication throughout grade school, and not because of my
grades. It would’ve put me on closer to level ground with my peers and maybe
protected some of my confidence. Homework and tests wouldn’t have taken long if
I could focus, limiting anxiety. My parents didn’t have access to this. If you
do and your child needs it and your enduring some trial and error and you’re
doing it, good for you. You are giving your child a precious gift. Pat yourself
on the back. If you’ve chosen not to medicate your child and you’re using other
therapies, good for you. You’re a fierce advocate and your child will know you
always have their back. Pat yourself on yours.
Labels can be harmful if they’re over-identified with,
or worse, incorrect. But the right label offers a map. It offers answers and
validation. So, I truly am sorry when I don’t return your call and you still
haven’t gotten your birthday card, or you’re left to wait for me yet again. I
promise I’m working on these things, but in the meantime please know that it’s
not you. My brain just works a little differently. It’s still my responsibility
to work on these things and it’s not an excuse. But it is an answer to the “why”
that I’ve been asking all my life. I have ADHD.
