My Journey to an ADHD Diagnosis
I’m proud of my story and happy that I can be here today sharing it with you.
Sometimes a diagnosis can help you understand yourself, so I encourage you to be informed about mental health and take care of yourself as you try to take care of others.
Although sharing this with you is difficult for me, it might just help you.
I was born with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD). From what I’m told, I inherited it from my parents, even though neither of them has ever thought about having it.
“ADHD runs in families. Anywhere from one-third to one-half of parents with ADHD will have a child with the disorder.” (WebMD, 2019)
When I started first grade, I was excited out of my mind. After kindergarten, it felt like I was ready to step in my grown-up and head off to college.
I was a good student, for the most part at least, because my weakness was chatting with my classmates all the time.
My teachers always bring up my behavior to my parents: “a brilliant girl, but she gets distracted way too much.” It was as if they wanted to applaud me, and never got to it when they saw the energy ball I really was.
It was then that my teacher asked my mom if I had been diagnosed. When she replied a negative, she suggested to her that I maybe should be checked.
My parents constantly push me to be the best student they know I can be. They grew up when teachers could throw chalkboard erasers at their mischievous students, so they had a different vision of how a good student should be and behave.
Spoiler alert: they were very strict. That was what they trusted to be the best for me in the long run.
The result of my good grades + misbehavior + their experience = frustration. I mean, they were beyond happy, but they didn’t understand why I couldn’t have both good behavior and perfect grades.
In their eyes, I could be better, and that’s why they were so firm with me. If I got an A+ in every subject, I could also have an A+ in conduct. At least I think that’s the logic behind their rules — they didn’t believe I was being my inattentive and hyperactive self, that I was just acting up and needed to be corrected under harsher rules.
I wasn’t diagnosed when I was a kid, for I was branded as a mischievous and very talkative girl.
Fast-forward to middle school, when I was starting to get bored. All through elementary school, learning and sitting through lessons were awesome, and the school was my playground. Not only did I felt like a genius, but I could also make friends and chat all day.
Intermediate school felt like a drag. Spending 8 hours in a facility where I would already know what was being taught, and understanding my lessons way ahead of my peers, began discouraging me. I started failing exams because I would get so bored I stopped trying.
I never paid attention, but now I didn’t even try.
Even though I only viewed middle school as a way to see my friends, and didn’t try hard at my academic life, I still got good grades. They weren’t A+, but As and Bs made me content.
My parents got a bit frustrated. It was the first time in my life I was getting those “bad” grades, and they thought I was just being lazy.
Honestly, perhaps I was, but I couldn’t get motivated for the life of me.
Then, I started getting anxious. I wanted to make my parents happy, so I genuinely tried to pay attention in class. I was trying hard in every way possible, yet my mind flew away for hours straight and my grades weren’t getting better.
I felt stupid.
Linked to this, and awful life things my family and I had to go through, I also started developing bad depression and anxiety.
I was a mess, convincing myself that nothing mattered. I started living a cynical existence.
My last year in middle school, I didn’t care about anything. I had panic attacks twice a week. Even if my parents reproached my ways, I didn’t have a care in the world — at least, that was I wanted to believe.
When all of my emotional baggage fell on me, I figured out I cared a lot — I was protecting myself by acting so cynical.
Still, that couldn’t last forever, and I started to get longer episodes were there wasn’t a day without a panic attack or a long hurtful cry.
Finally, I saw a therapist.
He helped me see what I was missing, and I decided to go to my dream high school. I was ready to become the best student that ever walked that high school. I was seeing my therapist, I had motivation, and even my parents were more understanding.
Then I fell. I was working my butt off without getting good grades or good opportunities, and I barely saw my family with all the workload I had. I did have a little shelter, a moment to breathe in my robotics team with my friend, so my days were split into two: when I was a zombie, versus when I was a happy human being.
School was torture to endure, I was working as I never did before, and yet I could sit through entire hours where my brain couldn’t pick up a single lesson. Even if it did, it would go blank and start to panic in middle of my tests.
Middle school was me probably being lazy, whereas high school was me being practically exploited by myself.
That’s where my mental health hit rock bottom and took a shovel to dig its own grave. I was completely miserable.
I cried almost every day on the bus, in the morning and in the afternoon, and even between classes. I began to hate and beat myself. Was I stupid? Was I not good enough for a common education? Even some of my teachers thought I was a lazy kid who didn’t give school a chance.
I was so disappointed in myself that I couldn’t sleep or eat without feeling guilty.
It wasn’t until a teacher made a remark in front of my whole class that my mental health was awful and that I should see an expert, that I realized how bad my situation was. When I spoke with him in private, I wanted to be mad about him being so public about my issues, but instead all I could do was cry my eyes out and explain all that was happening to me.
He was a little surprised that I had reacted that way, but he calmly suggested to me that perhaps there was something in my brain beyond my control.
I saw a psychiatrist and I was officially diagnosed with ADHD. With the help of my therapist, friends, and family, I came to understand that I shouldn’t have beaten up myself so badly.
I really was trying my best, and it was enough, but I couldn’t control part of me, because I was never taught how.
It was with my diagnosis that I could be treated. My parents and I finally understood that the school system is not always fit for some people and that a grade by it doesn’t dictate my worth. I understood that my academic life wasn’t everything, that there’s more than one path to achieve my dreams, and that we all have different ways of thinking.
We shouldn’t be so quick to judge people if we don’t know their process of thinking, because we don’t always know how their brain works.
I’m proud of my story and happy that I can be here today sharing it with you. What’s your experience?
