"Honey, remember when you tell a story, there's a beginning, a middle, and an end."
I heard this on repeat as a kid from my mother. When I tried to explain a scenario to someone, I'd get nervous and start with the biggest part, then backtrack to the beginning. I could tell the listener didn't understand quite what I was trying to communicate. As I got older, I recognized my tendency more and made sure to stop myself before I began speaking so I could plan out my story in a cohesive way. These days, at the age of 24, I apologize every time I walk into my boss's office with a question, because I know when I'm done explaining, he will ask me to clarify a few times.
Sometimes it's not the order of my story that confuses people, but my tendency to lose my train of thought mid-sentence. In high school my friends used to joke that I must be smoking too much weed because my short-term memory was shot to hell. Truth is, I didn't even try marihuana until I started college. Instead, my ideas seemed to vanish in mid-air as I looked around the room, noticing this or that.
I always knew something was not right. My father shares very similar consequences as I. My mom sometimes brings up the story about once when he put a TV dinner in the microwave. Later, she asked him how his dinner was, and he commented that it was "good." She found the half-melted, soggy dinner in the microwave, never heated, several hours later. Of course I laugh every time I hear it, but part of me restrains from disappointment, knowing I also have these tendencies.
One day in grade school I asked my mom if I could be tested for ADHD. She took my inquiry seriously, but suggested that I couldn't have ADHD because I wasn't hyperactive. She was right: in fact, I'd consider myself the complete opposite. It always took me longer to get off the couch, start my homework, do the dishes. I could sit down and stare off for several minutes without much movement at all, or any desire to move. I started to accept that this is just who I am. Maybe, like my grandma says, I was just like my dad: a "late bloomer." I did well in grade school through high school, except when it came to math. I desperately wanted to succeed in the subject because I adore the sciences and deeply respect the power of mathematics. No matter how hard I tried; no matter how many tutoring sessions I went to; no matter how many late nights my dad assisted me in the revisions of homework I had to do to not fail, it felt fruitless in the end. I scraped by in my college trig and calculus classes with a D. My other grades weren't much better, depending on the subject.
After a disasterous exam in my data analysis course, I called the ADA department at my university, crying, desperate for some help. They were sensitive to my struggles, but I'd need to be formally tested before I qualified for any assistance. My college existed in a small Missouri town of less that 20,000. Finding a psychologist would be time consuming, and would require driving hours away. Because I was in the middle of a heavy semester, again I turned away from the opportunity.
In the last year, I have locked my keys in the car at least once a month: so much that I set up an almost foolproof system to unlock my car and retrieve them. I lost my cell phone in August and had to buy a new one. I've forgotten to pay bills. I rear ended a woman because I was distracted by a lawn ornament in a passing yard. I've made critical errors at work due to simple forgetfulness. I have become so incredibly frustrated with myself that I want to throw things, break things, scream. "I'm an adult," I tell myself. "I should have my shit together by now."
I now live in a metropolitan area of around 2 million. I finally took the steps to get diagnosed with ADHD. I met with a psychologist and poured out my complicated story, my fears, my frustrations. Everything I described seemed to make sense to her, which felt so comforting. Pending a few tests to find my specific attention weaknesses, she diagnosed me with ADHD.
I practically skipped out her office, while it was pouring down rain. I got into my car, and starting crying: not out of sadness, but immense relief. FINALLY there is a name for this struggle I've been dealing with my entire life. FINALLY there's options to help me. I am no longer "stupid," "slow," or "lazy." I'm just me.
I believe there is a stigma about ADHD in our society. Kids doped on Ritalin or Adderal hasn't helped. But we have to remember that there are some of us who really are struggling. We're not just procrastinating because we lack motivation. We're trying hard to function in the brain we were born with. We're not inconsiderate of people's time because we're late or forget appointments. We're attempting to live life with our unfortunate circumstances. And just because I'm an adult, no longer in school, doesn't mean that I am not struggling with everyday tasks. Even though I've been given another label to who I am, I accept it as a welcome facet of my identity.