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What I'm Learning About Myself After My ADHD Diagnosis

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I flake on people and hangout sessions. I go home a lot on the weekend. I seclude myself. I wander off to escape the stimuli. I’m not a solid friend. I’ll ask you to repeat what you just said two more times, seemingly like I’m not paying attention. People have called me out on it time and time again.

It’s not apathy — it’s the way a lot of our brains are built. But that’s OK.

A “flaw” in my chemistry is not a flaw in character.

Two summers ago, I was diagnosed with inattentive ADHD. I never thought I’d be sitting here writing this. I thought everyone was like this — I thought everyone functioned the same way I did. Until, my life suddenly spiraled out of control, and I realized this is bigger than a few symptoms.

Let me break it down. ADHD is classified by three types — hyperactive-impulsive, inattentive, and a combination of the two. Hyperactive is likely what you picture when thinking of ADHD: having trouble staying still. Inattentive, however, is different. Pretend all the thoughts you think are written on a chalkboard in your brain. For example, people without ADHD might have a certain function that filters out, say, 90 percent percent of all the stimuli the brain could potentially think about. The other 10 percent gets written on the chalkboard, and that represents the actual thoughts the brain thinks. People with ADHD don’t have the same function that filters out the 90 percent of stimuli that comes at them; therefore, all 100 percent of the stimuli might go on the chalkboard and is thought about all at the same time. Is that possible? No, and that’s why I speak really fast and in fragments, because there are nine times as many thoughts in my head as the average person.

It feels like there’s a constant, loud radio static I can never turn off.

It’s the clumsiness, and the continual busyness of thoughts. My brain is always talking. Words are repeated over and over in my head, and it doesn’t ever stop. There’s a constant song or beat that doesn’t make sense stuck in my head. I talk way too fast. I can’t form sentences well. I sound like a broken record when I talk. I can’t stop moving my hands. I take three times as long to finish anything, from assignments to getting ready in the morning. I wake up four times every night from my thoughts. I have to build in time to get distracted. I’ll forget appointments, classes, and simple tasks if I don’t write them down. I hear you speaking, but I can’t make sense of it fast enough. I need you to repeat what you just said. I can’t remember where I parked my car.

What you don’t see is the overcompensation for a disorder I never knew I had my whole life. What you don’t see is the 16-year-old high school student who was in school from 7:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., took three AP classes, worked a part-time job from 5:30 to 11 every evening, and spent every night up until 3 a.m. working on assignments for classes I couldn’t pass, because I didn’t have enough time to think when taking tests. It’s sad that I didn’t realize there was a problem when my father was waking up to start the next day when I was going to bed and getting maybe three hours of sleep a night.

Fortunately, there is a bright side. High-school me realized not every class valedictorian had to become a doctor, historian, or brain surgeon, so I’ll never have to attempt to focus on a class equivalent to AP Chemistry ever again. College me realized I can make a living doing whatever it may be that sets my heart on fire and makes me want to get out of bed every day.

The plus side? It’s where my creativity comes from. By nature, I’m 100 percent the most logical person you’ll ever meet. Myers-Briggs type? I’m the one you’ll come to for solving a problem in the quickest way possible. However, when my ADHD first began to peak, there was an increase of me diving into the creative abyss. Research suggests that people with ADHD generally fall more towards the creative side as well. It’s why anything creative is my outlet, since it exercises and frees my brain from all of the distraction the world has to offer.

I’m learning to lean into things that free my brain. I’m learning to lean into the things that make me feel freed and refreshed. I’m learning to replace the time spent on my phone with spontaneously exploring a city, visiting the humane society to pet cats, and walking through the local art museum.

I’m learning to work on it. I’m learning it’s OK to talk about my ADHD, even though I don’t fully understand. I’m learning to become a better friend. I’m learning to follow through with plans. I’m learning it’s all right to ask someone to repeat something they said or to ask for help. I apologize not for who I am, but how I’ve handled myself.

I’m learning to accept and love the way I’m scientifically made and work to better myself. I’m learning not everyone is the same. We are all made unique and differently, and the differences are strikingly beautiful. These are the cards I’m dealt with, and I’m going to make life strikingly beautiful as well.

Follow this journey on Nicoletillotson.com.

Image via Thinkstock Images

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The First Day of Kindergarten for My Son With ADHD

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I sent my youngest boy off to kindergarten today. I thought I might find some relief in this. He is my “busy” child. My days with him are spent performing various forms of “redirecting.” We are exhausted by the end of the day and often times on the verge of tears.

As I helped him into his pajamas last night, he began to ask me the typical questions of a child about to enter the world of academia.

“Will I have to bring my school supplies home with me every day and then back to school again?”

“No, bud. They’ll stay there.”

“But what if I have homework?”

“You will bring home the work that needs to be done at home, and we will have everything else you need, right here at home.”

“What if I have to cut some paper?”

“We have scissors here, honey.”

“We do? Where?”

“Well, I’m not going to tell you that right now. I will get them for you when we need them.”

“What if my teacher yells at me?”

“Now, why would your teacher yell at you?”

“Because I’m bad. I’m always bad, and what if she hates me?”

Wait. What? Never had I ever gotten the impression that my son felt like he was a “bad kid.” Yes, he is probably (definitely) reminded of what the household rules are and why we must enforce them, pretty regularly. Yes, he probably (definitely) spends more time in his room than his siblings do. (Time spent thinking about why we cannot throw a bat across the yard when we strike out. Or why we cannot close the drain and then leave the water to run from the bathroom sink until the ceiling below said bathroom starts dripping on mom’s head. Sometimes he’s sent to his room because he is screaming at the top of his lungs because the guy he picked to win in American Ninja Warrior did not in fact win today.)

Despite all of this, we have never told him we thought he was “bad,” or even what he was doing was “bad.” In fact, my husband and I make a point to do everything we can to not respond in a negative manor when, for instance, his little sister walks into our room with a Sharpee mustache and pointy eyebrows. (Cue, “well meaning” parents responses claiming, “If that were my kid…”)

We have rewarded him with stickers and cotton balls for all of his good behaviors and acts of kindness. We remind him often of how much we love him and how lucky we are to be his parents. But, still. He sees himself as a “bad” kid. Hearing those words made my heart break for him.

He’s so young and already displays the signs of self shaming that comes along with the long list of ADHD struggles. My little boy, with his big blue eyes and tender heart. The boy who covers his little sister with his own blanket when she falls asleep on the couch on movie night. The boy who cheers for his older brother at his baseball games yelling “Yes! Great hit, Max!” The boy who sings “Wrecking Ball” into his toy microphone while dancing around his room when he thinks no one is watching. My funny, sweet, caring, thoughtful boy, thinks that he is deserving of “hate” from his soon-to-be teacher.

I watch him as he walks away from me toward the enormous doors of the school. (When did those doors get so big?) I can feel the tears forming in my eyes as he slowly blends into the swarm of children flooding through those doors. He is hidden, in part, by his giant backpack along with the older kids who tower over him. He never looks back. My brave little man. I know how nervous he is, but he marches on in to a whole new world. A world that, I hope, will embrace and accept him for who he is. A world that, I hope, will see the kind and loving boy who once ran full speed for two whole blocks to his brother when he saw he wiped out on his bike, just to make sure he was OK.

I walk back to my car, and the tears are now falling freely beyond my control. “What’s wrong, Mommy?” my daughter asks.

I try to compose myself, and I clear my throat to try and gather together enough words to form a comprehensible answer. “I’m just going to miss that boy so much,” I manage to get out between unexpected sobs.

She looks up at me with her sweet and understanding eyes and says, “I know, Mommy, he’s my best boy. I will really miss my good boy.”

Oh, how I hope the world will see what we see.

Follow this journey on Hackrack.

Image via Thinkstock.

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When My Diagnosis Revealed My Difficulties Were More Than a Matter of ‘Trying Harder’

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I was the girl who stared out the window.

I was the girl who cried at the drop of a hat.

I was the kid who had an anxiety attack and nobody knew what it was.

I was the girl with the most black marks on the good kid/bad kid board.

The shame of watching those marks being made by my teacher still sit with me to this day. I still feel like that kid with the most black marks in class.

I didn’t misbehave; I was actually well-behaved, but I was extremely forgetful. I would forget my gym clothes, my musical instrument, my homework and that permission note my mum needed to sign.

The school tested my hearing because they thought I might have hearing loss. Why? Because when my name was called, I didn’t respond. I was away in dreamland.

My teacher said, “She is there in body but not in mind.”

All of this carried on through school. As a teenager, my behavior was monitored with a microscope. I stopped going to school when I was 15.

I couldn’t do my homework at home. I impulsively hit my siblings out of frustration and immediately regretted it. I fidgeted and wriggled in my seat. I didn’t brush my teeth. I didn’t wash myself properly. My mother had never heard of ADD, and her frustration with me equalled to stern discipline and punishments, but they never worked. I was a “problem child” who did whatever she wanted. The kindest thing ever said to me as a teenager was that I “was a free spirit!”

What does it look like now?

On the outside, it might look like I’m a “flaky” friend who just can’t get it together and jumps from one job/project/idea/career choice to another while dropping everything else. On the outside, it might look like I don’t care about my friends or family because I forget their birthdays, and I don’t have any money to buy presents. On the outside, it might look like I am a selfish friend, daughter, sister and girlfriend. That I just don’t care enough.

“Why can’t she just focus and do something with her life?”

“Why can’t she keep her home clean?”

“Why can’t she get a job?”

I stare into space at home and jump from one thought to another.

The place is a mess. I’m afraid to answer my phone. I keep the curtains closed in case somebody calls and I pretend I’m not there.

I can’t hold down a job because I get frustrated so easily. I create enemies where there are none because I can’t handle stress properly. I’m late, I don’t have any clean clothes, I didn’t give myself enough time to shower so my hair is greasy. I forgot to brush my teeth.

I put that utility bill aside and forgot about it, so now I’ve been disconnected and I have to spend the winter washing myself in the sink with a kettle.

I forget to respond to text messages, so my friends assume I don’t care enough about them to respond in a timely manner. They stop calling and texting.

In 2015, I was diagnosed with ADHD at the age of 35. Everything made sense. I didn’t have to pretend anymore. I could explain my difficulties and be heard. But on the outside, I am still that “flaky” friend, the “messy, moody” co-worker and “inattentive” girlfriend.

I’ve been through a lot in my life because of being undiagnosed, and it had a massive impact on my mental health. I have had depression and anxiety at varying levels of intensity. The anxiety is quite bad now, but at least I know why I am having difficulties. Since diagnosis, it has been a slow road to being easier on myself, trying to create routine and getting the help I need. Medication helps me feel clearer in my mind, and I look forward to therapy, where I can deal with the negative views I have about myself and deal with the low self-esteem. There are only so many times you can get back up and brush it off and start again before your spirit starts to show signs of cracking and breaking.

This is a message for those in my life who still see me as that person who just needs to try harder: I have been, I always have been and I will never stop.

Image via Thinkstock Images

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In the Mind of a Writer With ADHD

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On a bright cold day in April 1993 or thereabouts, I was in an elementary school computer lab populated by a ragtag assemblage of low-end Macintosh LC’s and rather more quaint Commodore Amigas and 128s. I sat hunched over in my miniature ergonomic chair, mouth agape, entranced by 256 vibrant colors of edutainment diffused across a 12-inch monitor, poised to make history on a microcosmic scale.

My game of choice was Word Munchers, a Pacman clone designed to impart basic grammar skills upon jaded schoolchildren. See, you controlled this little monster, and you had to make him eat words that conformed to specific vowel sounds, or words that were only adjectives, or words that rhymed with other words and so forth. The specifics aren’t important. What’s important is that on that day in April, after two hours of hyper-focused gameplay, I beat the game. I was in the first grade, and I beat the entire game on the fifth grade level.

I tell you this not to brag, but to say I have no taste for self-aggrandizement is a grievous understatement. I recount this story because, as pathetic as it might sound, beating that inconsequential game on that bright cold day remains the apex accomplishment of my entire life. For one fraction of a second, I was open to options I had never before considered. Everything seemed within the realm of possibility. I know it sounds reductive to posit that my entire self­-image could be based upon a single incident from my childhood, but on that day I cast a shadow from which I’ve never been able to fully emerge. There’s no way that I could ever live up to my own grandiose expectations.

Last year, at the age of 28, I was diagnosed with ADHD, attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder. Contrary to the unfair stereotype of a child with ADHD being a malcontent who revels in kicking the backs of chairs and assailing other people with various calibers of Nerf ordinance, growing up I was always exceptionally deferential to my elders. I was quiet, calm, unassuming and stable. Somewhat akin to Martin Prince, though lacking his social cachet. At least that’s how I was for the first few years, before I burned out.

For me, having ADHD is like using a color wheel without the little spinny top part — I have the advantage of being able to see all of the colors at once, but I’m at a distinct disadvantage in that I can’t discern which colors are best suited for one another.

My perception ends up unified. I see the past, present and future all as one. I simply can’t navigate. I can’t command my mind to go where it needs to go. It’s not that I can’t focus on anything, it’s that I feel compelled to focus on everything all at once. Or one precise thing to the detriment of all else.

I can make conceptual connections and empathize with other beings in ways that many neurotypical people can’t or don’t want to, but I’m barely functional in almost every other regard.

I lack the ability to delay gratification, too. I’ll put off anything I am doing,­ no matter how important­, if I think there’s something I can do in the immediate moment to help someone else. I do it even if that help is not really needed. I might spend hours or even days intensely focused on perfecting a cookie recipe if I feel there’s even the slightest chance a plate of perfect cookies might cheer someone up. All other concerns become secondary and tertiary.

My capacity to make decisions, at least in a timely manner, is severely encumbered. I’m felled by an abyss of contingencies, all of them equally ­weighted, suffused with infinite possibility.

This form of paralysis has wreaked havoc on my ability to successfully complete a great multitude of work over the years. It doesn’t matter if I am faced with jotting down a brief reflection on a subject or engaging in an extensive literature review — when I sit down to write something and consider the limitless options before me, I become enmeshed in my endlessly tangential thoughts.

This becomes especially apparent to me whenever I attempt to engage in any form of deep reading. It takes me a very long time to finish a single book, and as a consequence I feel innately dull. It’s impossible for me to read more than a paragraph at a time without stopping to ponder for hours, or staring at the wall for days. I’m a dilettante — an imposter. I’m constantly vigilant lest others find out and feel compelled to discount me altogether.

Emotionally and intellectually stupefied. Exhausted. Untrustworthy. A flake. A disappointment. I’ve internalized these perceptions. They are part of me. I have brown hair, green eyes and I am a complete screw-up.

As I attempt to salvage some semblance of self-­respect from my formative years, I’ve come to understand in many regards I hold myself to impossibly high standards. If I create anything I perceive to be less than perfect or ideal, I tend to take it as a failure, unworthy of being shared. Years ago I wrote a letter to the editor in which, upon publication, someone erroneously changed my use of the word “averse” to “adverse.” There is literally not a single other entity in the universe who could possibly care about this, but it still bothers me immensely my name was attached to the misapplication of a word.

I understand the fallacies inherent in what I’ve just said, but I nevertheless can’t surmount them. Perfection is illusory and the relentless pursuit of it is innately self-destructive. I would never hold anyone else to the same unattainable standards to which I hold myself. I would do everything within my power to find the beauty in others’ work — to encourage tenacity. Why can’t I afford myself the same courtesy? Because to do so would constitute self­-pity. Egotism. Naval gazing. It would be distasteful. Logic has no bearing on my self-concept.

I suppose everybody has a set “person” they feel they’ve become. Some people mold themselves into this person but most elect to have others do it for them. We’re all shaped by forces greater than us. After a while this personality becomes hardened and stringent, like the shell of a cicada. We become afraid to molt the shell because the process leaves us naked and vulnerable to the world.

I don’t like what I’ve written. It’s laughably maudlin, serious, my anecdotes are too personal, too specific, too boring. I haven’t said anything others haven’t said more eloquently a thousand times before. My writing is redundant, inelegant and not remotely transcendent. Nevertheless I’ve chosen to share it with you in the hope that doing so will allow me to finally emerge from the shadow of my 7-year-old self, or break free of my spent cicada shell or whatever other metaphor you might see fit to employ. I write to accept myself for who I am. I will never be the world’s first fire-­fighting cyborg clown to be appointed Secretary General of the United Nations, and I need to be OK with that. I am OK with that.

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Why I Decided to Tell My Child She Has ADHD

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When a parent receives an ADHD diagnosis for their young child, they are filled with many emotions. The biggest one I hear from parents is relief. They feel an overwhelming sense of relief because they finally have an explanation for their child’s behavior and actions. Now they can move forward and seek proper care. That is absolutely fantastic for not just the child, but the entire family. However, when a young child is diagnosed, parents are then faced with a decision: whether to tell their child they have ADHD or not.

Honestly, I am surprised by how many parents have told me their child doesn’t know they have ADHD. However, I can understand why. Our society has created such a negative association with ADHD. Sadly, when most people discover a child has ADHD, they automatically assume he or she is “a troublemaker,” “rambunctious” and “disobedient.” Hardly anyone looks at the child and thinks he or she is “a leader,” “an out-of-the-box thinker” and “a visionary.” Because of this, I am not surprised many parents are afraid to tell their child they have ADHD. They are afraid their child will feel scared or “different.”

I see ADHD as an advantage. I see it as a gift. I see it as a superpower. That is why there was no doubt in my mind I would tell my then 5-year-old daughter she had ADHD. First of all, I felt she has the right to know why her mind works a certain way. Second of all, she has nothing to be ashamed about. In words she could understand, my husband and I told her that her brain works differently than in other kids and because she is so interested in the amazing world around her and has so many wonderful thoughts, it makes it hard for her to focus sometimes. We told her there is special medicine just for her that will help her brain focus better at school. We also told her about the celebrities with ADHD and all of their accomplishments. (Her favorite is Walt Disney.) We told her ADHD is part of what makes her so creative, imaginative and passionate. My husband has ADHD and he’s an intelligent and successful businessman, so my daughter sees firsthand how ADHD affects her father in a positive way every single day.

Don’t get me wrong. Despite having a positive perception of ADHD and using medication to help her focus in school, my daughter still has some difficulties. Anxiety and depression have found their way into my daughter’s life as well, which often coincide with ADHD. However, it is nothing we can’t handle together. My daughter is young and still learning what works and what doesn’t for her ADHD, which is completely understandable. When she is having a hard time, I like to recite Rumpelstiltskin’s famous quote from “Once Upon A Time” to her: “All magic comes with a price, dearie.” I say it in his voice of course, which usually ends in her laughing and then remembering all the great qualities and abilities that can come with ADHD.

What I do and will always do for my daughter is help her see the glass half-full. I will always provide her with the tools she needs, including me, who is her biggest supporter and advocate.

The Mighty is asking the following: Share a conversation you’ve had that changed the way you think about disability, disease or mental illness. Check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.

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How One Word Plays a Valuable Role in My Life as a Person With ADHD

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As a person with attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), one of my major stressors can be the frustration, and sometimes guilt, of procrastination and the feeling I’m never accomplishing enough. It takes very little to knock me off course sometimes, and the freewheeling, relaxed, socially abundant atmosphere of summer, while wonderful, doesn’t help.

There’s always someone doing something somewhere that sounds so much better than the work project that’s due on Monday or that errand you promised your spouse you’d take care of for the kids over the weekend. In short, there are plenty of “squirrels” to steal your focus.

For someone with ADHD, the word “routine” can conjure up a series of repetitive, logistical tasks and seemingly “mundane” obligations that are about as exciting as watching a new cable channel called “Haircut TV.”

That’s not to say they aren’t important. In fact, they’re often vital, and I sometimes regard those who can manage them with an almost mystical reverence. But for me, they can be painful. So in this context, I use the word “routine” simply as an unbiased descriptor — an adjective.

But while these “routine” tasks often assume the persona of my sworn nemesis, I’ve also come to realize over the years that the word “routine,” in an alternate context, has come to play an extremely valuable role in the management of my ADHD life. “Routine” as a noun — a word that refers to the regularity of activities that can help bring order and stability to an otherwise chaotic mind.

For someone living with ADHD, adding a certain amount of routine (in noun form) to their life can be a very effective coping strategy. It can help provide external cues that make it easier to transition between tasks. 

When faced with a task that needs to be accomplish regularly (but always seems to get put off due to its mundane nature), you can build a “routine” around it. Creating a ritual of sorts can trigger your brain to know when its time to start shifting your focus towards that activity. In other words, establishing a routine as an external prompt can, in some cases, help build “muscle memory” of the brain.

Let’s face it: A lapsed routine during the summer can be fine. It’s expected. It’s the time of year when we get to slow down and enjoy some of the rewards of our hard work. The trick for many individuals with ADHD is to take advantage of the downtime without allowing it to consume you.

But there’s no denying that for me — and for many who deal with the challenge of ADHD — there is a certain amount of comfort and safety in knowing that when September roles around and the kids head back to school, everything can get back to its normal routine.

So although it may be wise to recognize and appreciate the difference between “routine” as both an adjective and a noun, the truth is that while we may never desire one to be more than a casual acquaintance that we learn to accept and tolerate out of necessity, the other can become one of your best friends.

The Mighty is asking the following: What is a part of your or a loved one’s disease, disability or mental illness that no one is aware of? Why is it time to start talking about it? If you’d like to participate, please check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.

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