I was diagnosed with ADHD at the ripe old age of seventeen, and I swear the world fell into place for me that day. Growing up, I always felt inexcusably different from the general population, and people always loved to point it out. My fondest memory of this feeling is when I was eight years old, jumping up and down in a crowd of people at a campground concert, twirling around in my favorite yellow dress to the rhythm of “1 2 Step” by Ciara ft. Missy Elliot. Even though I’m ridiculously prepubescent, I know all the words to this promiscuous song and am not afraid to show it. I skip towards my uncle who is recording us with his video camera, yelling at the top of my lungs, “SHAKE YOUR BOOTY!” My younger sister gently touches my arm as if to say, we’re in public. As if to say, you’re embarrassing me. As if to say, control yourself. I immediately stop mid-convulsion, scanning the swarm of faces in horror as I realize everyone around me is calmly bobbing to the beat and I am accidentally making a scene. Again. Whenever my family watches this videotape, they rewind this part over and over, howling with laughter at my hyperactivity and my sister’s mortified expression. This moment captures a common motif in my life: unintentional but blatant nonconformity.
When I tell people I have ADHD, I typically get one of three things: 1) “Really? But you’re so smart!” (Maybe, but I spent over thirty hours on this essay and you only spent four hours on it). 2) “ADHD isn’t real” (ADHD is a legitimate neurobiological disorder that involves observable problems with executive functioning). 3) “Do you have a prescription? Can I buy some of your meds off you?” (Um, how about no?).
In my experience, ADHD is more than forgetting your homework or peacefully looking out the window while your teacher is talking. It’s more than losing your car keys or leaving the brownies in the oven. I joke about these little things all the time because they’re funny to me, and I probably will never stop joking about them. But I don’t think most people realize how dark living with ADHD can be.
To me, ADHD is, “I told you this four times, do you even listen?” It’s constantly hearing “just focus” or “just work a little harder” or “just believe in yourself.” (Just. Like it’s easy). It’s low self-esteem and feeling like you can’t trust yourself to make healthy decisions, despite logically knowing what’s best for you. It’s constantly telling yourself “How can you be so stupid?” It’s swallowing a pill to blend in but still managing to stand out, or choosing not to take that pill because of stigma and your own pride—a lose-lose situation. It’s a sea of dirty laundry, a series of distorted reflections, and fighting against unhealthy coping mechanisms. It’s feeling like you’re underperforming despite seeing your potential. It’s telling your loved ones, “I’m trying” over and over again; why can’t they see how hard you are trying? It’s being talked down to. It’s tossing and turning all night because you can’t shut off your brain. It’s a frustrating paradox of being too much and not enough. Too loud. Too passionate. Too eccentric. Not serious enough. Not dedicated enough. Not calm enough. It can be destructive, painful, and isolating.
The other day, my friends told me I came across as “confident” and “intimidating.” Sitting on the floor with a jar of peanut butter in one hand and a spoon in the other, I cackled. “See, that’s what we mean,” one of my friends said. “You just don’t care what anybody thinks of you.” Here we go again, I thought.
I wish people understood that I’m not coming to class in my Spongebob pajama pants because I hope people find it endearing. I’m coming to class in my Spongebob pajama pants because I was up all night writing a paper that most people could write in an hour and I didn’t leave enough time to print it. I’m not lazy—mundane tasks require much more energy for me than a neurotypical person because my brain is easily understimulated. I’m not interrupting you because I don’t care about what you have to say. I’m interrupting you because I’m genuinely so excited to tell you something and I don’t want to lose my train of thought. And half the time I didn’t even mean to say that or make that joke, and I definitely didn’t mean to offend you. Underneath my goofy, carefree, unabashed attitude is a deeply caring and sensitive soul.
To be honest, I wish I was quieter and more soft-spoken. Believe it or not, sometimes I want nothing more than to be invisible. I spent my formative years trying to make myself small, afraid to open my mouth out of fear of what would come out of it. Now I know that life is too short. If I can make people laugh and show them that it’s okay to be imperfect, weird and a mess sometimes, I’m going to do it. I’m not trying to be different, but I’m no longer fighting my nature.