It’s All in My Head:
MARY WILSON OPINIONS EDITOR:
While writing this article, the deadline set by my editor looming closer, I fidgeted. A million other activities called my name. I should clean my room. I should make cookies. I should work on that essay. I should watch the latest episode of This Is Us. I looked around the room. My legs bounced. I needed to write this article. I couldn’t let my editor down again. I drummed my fingers on my laptop. I had no excuses. I had been given a journalist’s dream: I got to choose any topic and write about it. I was passionate about this topic. I had shown that I am capable of producing quality work, again and again, but I couldn’t seem to quiet my mind. Intrusive thoughts swarmed around me. I got up from my spot on my bedroom floor and walked to the kitchen. Had I eaten today? As I stood with the refrigerator door open. I walked back to my room and sat down on the floor again. I had been sitting at my computer for half an hour, and all I had to show for it was a tentative title at the top of the page: ADHD. Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder affects me in every aspect of my life. I fidget through classes, struggling to stay quiet. My mind darts in circles, spinning off in tangents. The medicine my doctor prescribed me helps a little, but I am still struggling. I went through 15 failed drafts of this piece. The title eluded me; they are all untitled, collecting virtual dust on my Google drive. It wasn’t until the 16th draft, when I had given up on writing about ADHD and instead moved on to several drafts of an album review, that a friend and colleague on the newspaper suggested I write about how ADHD impacts me. No more hypothetical terms. No more DSM wording. I had to be honest. I am hard on myself for my struggles, knowing full-well that most people go through less than 15 drafts of a 500 word assignment. I know that most people can sit through a two hour movie without getting up to walk around halfway through, trying not to crunch popcorn crumbs in the dark movie theater, embarrassed by the stares of my fellow movie goers. I know that most people don’t need to fidget constantly. If I am awake, I am moving. My legs bounce, my fingers fiddle. In elementary school, I acted as if I were “driven by a motor.” I climbed trees without thinking about how I would get down from tall branches. I was hopelessly inadequate in science and math, though that might have been because I never turned in my fifth-grade math homework. At times, I am hyper focused; other times, I can’t remember someone’s name even after they’ve repeated it a half dozen times in the span of five minutes. I wasn’t diagnosed with ADHD until I was 20. My pediatrician diagnosed me, and after I had filled out the symptom checklists and talked with a neuropsychologist and my therapist, she apologized for picking up on it late. I started medicine for ADHD, and it blew me away. I could focus for more than a few seconds. Did ordinary people feel this way? It felt amazing. I could take a minute to catch my breath. I’m still working on compensation strategies to help me. I’m always trying new techniques for grounding myself and slowing down. My friends help keep me accountable for the things I need to do. I see a therapist and I take my meds. ADHD isn’t fun, but it’s manageable, and there’s hope for those who suffer through it. Seeing a doctor to talk about symptoms was the first step to getting the diagnosis that helped me make big, beautiful changes in my life. If I can run the Opinions section of the college newspaper, there’s hope for others with this condition. Ask for help; it will be worth it.
