I love bookstores. If I could crawl up and fold myself between the spines of my favorite novels, you would forever find me resting there. For years, I strolled past the Self-Help aisle, reluctant to enter, anticipating a kind of Knott’s Scary Farm experience where ominous demons follow people around.
One day, many years ago, I decided to enter this domain. I casually scanned titles that suggested every possible ailment. Might I have “this” illness or “that” problem? Was this instigating hypochondria? Then, I saw a workbook on Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) and mood changes. This might be the book that could help me.
When I was younger, I never thought about having ADHD. I had extraordinary energy and my family, especially my parents, always said I was moody. Something was different. I went to high school in the eighties when problems didn’t exist until you made them a problem. And then it was yours to manage, usually alone. Mental Health concerns were stigmatized. Only those needing serious interventions were identified. Teens wondering about having a mental issue might chug down a bottle of Boone’s Farm wine stolen from a neighbor’s liquor cabinet to dull their worries.
Over the years, depression, Bipolar, ADD, and other diagnoses were assigned to me. There were so many physical, psychological, and emotional tests, MRI’s, written tests, group evaluations, and observations that I started wondering how many issues I had. I knew my brain worked differently. I felt it. It was like a swarm of bees, in constant motion, some peeling off and then returning to the hive. The frantic hum was loud and incessant. Sometimes, I quietly begged for silence. I would walk outside, put my head down, close my eyes and pray for calm.
Other days, ADHD feels like falling slowly down a deep, dark well, with outstretched arms, grasping for an unattainable hold on slippery stones. When I look up, I see the light filled with people and things that matter, like love and acceptance, but I am too far down to feel it. So, I curl up and wait it out, utterly feeling the coldness of isolation and failure, the imperfections emerging, the mistakes, the shame, the guilt for being unable to control my brain. I wait in the silence, for hours, or days. Sometimes, I hurt others by appearing unsympathetic, but that’s not it at all. The desire to be part of the regular rhythm of people’s lives often conflicts with the simple need to get through the day. I have lost friends, alienated family, and even cheated myself out of opportunities as I “fell.”
I also struggle to keep track of my calendar. I forget to pay parking tickets, miss appointments or a birthday dinner or a concert I’d been looking forward to for months. I have forgotten to order my son’s yearbook. I drive much too fast. I lose things: keys, receipts, earrings, glasses. When avalanches of thought and emotion will not subside, I don’t speak. Then, there are times when, in one minute, I can comment on a dozen topics, much to the amazement and confusion of those around me. This is the dark, painful reality of ADHD, being out of control while desperately reaching for it.
Some things can lessen the noise, disband the hive, but I lacked the psychological and emotional understanding to piece them together. Psychiatric intervention, counseling, and medication have helped. When I was officially diagnosed with ADHD and a mood disorder, so many issues finally made sense. Even though it took years to get everything mostly right, life is manageable now, most days, and I can stop blaming myself for all the mistakes that seeped into my life. It is comforting to hear, “It’s not your fault,” but it is still so ridiculously hard to accept, to forgive yourself, and not feel shame for floundering, wishing you could take it back. Analyzing your own physiological needs and peculiar behaviors requires a level of emotional intelligence I still strive for, even on the absolute best days.
I find the ADHD diagnosis a paradox. It pushes both my ambitions and my chaos. I do not just do one thing; I do five. I do not just get one master’s degree; I get two. I do not just have one or two sons; I have three. Well, that was not entirely my doing, but I’ll own it here. I do not just run one marathon; I run five. Novelty, spontaneity, the desire to learn and grow, to be in a new place, having an experience that I had only dreamed of spikes the serotonin in my brain and makes me feel as “normal” as I suppose others feel. But this is not sustainable.
In my brain’s quest for those feel-good emotions, I have developed this deep desire to help others. Becoming part of someone’s success turns external actions into internal validation. It lifts me up. I am humble enough not to need accolades to feel valued. I strive to achieve my own high standards, raising the bar at regular intervals, but I am also disappointed when others don’t live up to the same standards. I have a powerful sense of fairness and justice and rebel against those who try to usurp power or take credit for the accomplishments of others.
I share these feelings because, like the buzzing in the background, they can overwhelm me. Sharing them, writing about them, and talking about them, lessens their depth. I can find moments of solace, joy, peace, and acceptance in who I am, what I accomplish, and that I have nothing left to prove, to myself or others.
I’m lucky. I have the gift of longevity in my marriage, my work, in many of my valued relationships with those whose empathy sustains me. It helps to talk to people. This is especially hard with those you care deeply about. You worry that they may not fully grasp the complexity of a diagnosis that can overwhelm you without your consent.
I understand. When it is personal, when it is you and your life, it can be excruciating to share a part of yourself that compounds both your uniqueness and your challenges.
If you struggle, too, sit with me for a minute; take a deep breath; calm the buzzing; let the bees disband and read this passage: It is not your fault. Your brain functions differently. Your value and self-worth are not connected to those differences. Read this again. Read it every single day.
We all battle something, we all struggle to find meaning in life, we all strive to find acceptance and joy. It is in the “we” that we should remember how much more we are alike than not, how much more we have in common than not, and how we are all vulnerable, fragile humans searching for purpose.
I freely admit that I have continued to purchase many of those books from the Self-Help aisle, titles designed to remind me that I am not alone. And yet, those books sit on my shelves, unread, collecting dust. Sometimes, I think of drafting my own story because at least then I could validate the source. But such a project would be hard. This article, alone, embodies the immense struggle it took to write it. Stringing my thoughts together on this topic was painful. What will my therapist say when I share that with her? Ironic yet again…
We are not alone. We are not less. We are not anything other than exquisitely unique. We must play to the strengths that set us apart and try not to judge ourselves harshly. If we can learn from what works and what doesn’t, we will continue to grow in our own light, away from the shadows of stigma and fear. Each time we try to quiet the noise and share our joys and sorrows, we have succeeded. It’s okay to skip “that” aisle as it can be quite overwhelming. I’ll head to the Fiction and Literature section instead.
Mental Health is a priority. Make it yours, own it, and help others do the same.
