How Undiagnosed ADHD & A Catholic Nun Destroyed My Inner Child
I have Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder — ADHD, Dyscalculia, Anxiety, Depression, and Complex Emotional Trauma. I know, it’s a lot for one person. I’m probably at risk of sounding like a complainer, or maybe I am one. But, if I’m going to tell my story, especially this one; I’m not holding back.
In 1975, I started first grade at the parochial school where my brother attended. Since I loved everything about kindergarten, I was beyond excited to learn more, especially art, and reading.
Sadly, it wasn’t long before my assumptions were proven wrong; school was nothing like I imagined -but it was everything I’d come to fear.
One morning like so many, Sister Patricia approached the blackboard gripping her stick of chalk. Tiny specs of dust fell like snow under every mark she made, and that irritating sound every time it hit the board…tap, scrape, scrape, tap, scrape, scrape, tap. When she finally shifted a few steps to her right, still tapping, I could see what she was writing. To me, they were just a bunch of lines connected together but to her, and everyone else -they were numbers. Math has never been a friend of mine, due to having “dyscalculia”, a math disability — which is often compared to dyslexia.
THE MATH LESSON
Sister Patricia set the chalk down — and randomly called out her first victim. I felt sick, but was grateful it wasn’t me. I held my breath -wishing and praying I wouldn’t be next. The best thing to do, I thought, was to remain perfectly still, maybe it would deter her from noticing me. But, the math lesson seemed to go on forever, making me wonder if she was saving me for last. Eventually, the inevitable happened, and the nun’s gibberish faded. Sheer boredom drove me to it. Just like a fish in the ocean getting swallowed by a whale, I let my guard down. My facial tension relaxed, and my lips parted -after clenching my teeth together for so long. Then, I drifted away staring into space. Completely disconnected. I did not hear numbers, nor did I hear any names being called. I’d been lured away with entertainment, as if a tiny tv set was placed inside my head. A break from the agonizing repetition was just what I needed. So, I thought about things. A lot of things. I thought cartoons I had watched that morning; What I was having for lunch that day; my favorite song; favorite candy, movie, color. You get the idea.
THE END OF A DAYDREAM
“Celia!”
Her hostile voice filled the room, sending me directly back to reality. She stood hovering over me, pointing to the numbers, and expecting me to answer.
My heart pounded against an awkward silence in the room. I was scared to speak … but even more afraid not to. It was the first time I ever remember feeling unsafe. It was also the first panic attack I ever had.
“I don’t understand it.” I admitted.
Her response was immediate and cruel. Her voice, loud and aggravated. It’s never left me.
“You don’t understand it? What’s wrong with you?”
Her dark beady eyes widened behind her thick cat-eye glasses she wore, and her lips, already thin, completely disappeared as she clenched her jaw.
“Everyone else understands it!” She added.
In the next breath, Sister Patricia’s hand smacked upon my desk with such force, I almost felt a breeze as it rushed past my face. If she’d smacked it any harder (even a little), her boney hand would have broken.
I looked back to the math problem while my vision turned blurry. An overflow of tears dripped past my lips, tasting of salt -before settling at curve of my chin. The crowd of eyes surrounded me, exposing my stupidity. Knowing how different I was from all of them, I developed a negative complex. It still follows me.
For the rest of that day, I could only think about going home. For the rest of that year, I pleaded not to go at all.
Perhaps in the scheme of turmoil — the outcome was meant to be. I managed to become a teacher myself, working mostly in early childhood, with preschool and kindergarten. As a supportive mentor, I always aimed to motivate my students, helping them discover and appreciate their natural strengths and talents. Ultimately, leading them to a healthy practice of self love, and courage.
In 2016, I was diagnosed with inattentive ADHD. I finally understood why everything was always hard for me. I learned that I wasn’t such a peculiar case, as I’d thought. Finding out there was a community of people with similar experiences, changed everything, almost. I gained knowledge, which led to hope, and motivation to pursue future goals.
Recently, I read a quote that said, “The influence of a good teacher can never be erased.” -Unknown
I felt the need to rephrase it…
“The influence of a teacher can never be erased.”
