When I was in sixth grade, my teachers held a conference on how I always read or zoned out during class. I remember my mom barging in the house after she returned, red-faced, yelling at me to “just pay attention”. I sat at the bottom of my closet, hanged clothes brushing the top of my head, as I cried.
The school suggested I should be tested for ADHD. At the depressingly brown doctor’s office, they stuck me in a closet with an ancient computer and a clicker for what seemed like hours. When the results came back, it was like the final puzzle piece fell into place.
It is difficult to describe having ADHD to someone without it. I like to describe it as a relentless itch of movement; uncontrollable, frustrating, never ceasing. My ADHD used to rip apart my nails, but now, it just twists my curls frantically or messes with my phone. My friends, classmates, adults, parents always tell me to stop moving, stop playing with your hair, stop biting your nails, stop playing with your phone. People don’t understand that I can’t “just stop”. My brain moves without me. ADHD is when your brain isn’t wired correctly; I cannot change change the makeup of my brain. If I do not comply with the urge of movement, it is mentally painful, restricting. Having ADHD is like being locked in a cage for hours when you just want to stretch out your legs and run.
The problem is that everyone tells me to stop moving. Everyone asks “why do you play with your hair?” or “why can’t you just sit still?” Even my own mother becomes annoyed when I cannot just fix the way my brain works.
I am not secretive about my mental disability. I openly discuss taking light dosages of medicine. Through being open about my disability, I have learned that not everyone is as accepting as they claim to be.
During a class at my school, if someone asks a question about amphetamines, I usually respond with my personal experience taking them for ADHD. This is always met with this awkward moment of silence as my proclamation hangs in the air. A banner, reading, “I have a mental disability, I am different.” People look pointedly at their shoes. Nobody has ever been openly rude to me, but even my best friends do not know how to respond when I frankly discuss my ADHD.
Part of me understands that. I don’t know how I’d react in their shoes. When someone brings up a disability, people often tiptoe around it, too afraid to address it out of fear of offending. However, by simply ignoring it, it makes me embarrassed of my disability.
News flash: Mental disabilities are not contagious. You are not going to stop sitting still by being near me. And, if I pretend I do not live with a mental disability, it does not go away. So what is with the stigma from society?
Having ADHD does not make me less of a person. It does not define me, or detract from my identity. When someone asks me about myself, I think of the real me. The real me loves reading, but thinks there isn’t enough space in the margins to write down my thoughts. The real me will never have perfectly white teeth because of my affinity for creamy London Fogs, but spends time mixing homemade remedies of baking soda and hydrogen peroxide anyway. The real me loves curling up on my window seat in my pajamas, watching biopics and documentaries until Netflix checks to make sure I am still there. The real me burns with a fiery, unstoppable determination, which I employ to help those people I care about.
There is nothing like the way my head dances. I see everything in color; rosy mouths crinkling as they let out peals of laughter, the whoosh of hot air on my legs as a faded turquoise car turning a sharp corner, the sparkling baby-blue eyes of an infant gazing at his mother with adoration. My mind is like the sped-up footage of Time Square; vibrant and quick and beautiful. I love it and I hate it and I love it-at least, I try to love it, but it can be hard to be different in a society that rewards conforming. My brain is beautiful. Imperfect, yes, but it is mine and we have pretty stable balancing act.
There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with having a disability. It does not make me “worse” in any way, just different. I should not feel uncomfortable or embarrassed talking about my ADHD. I should not feel like I am making empty excuses, like it is not valid. My ADHD is real, and I talk about it because it is part of my life. I just wish I felt more comfortable expressing that part of my life to society.
