Throughout my life, I have dealt with telltale signs of attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder, or ADHD. But until this past January, I neglected to take action.
Just eight months after graduating high school, I decided to see a psychiatrist for the first time. My mom had always told me I had the symptoms, and I was having the problems and thought processes usually associated with the disorder. Still, it took months of deliberation, talking with my therapist, discussing it with friends and second-guessing myself. I was terrified of being wrong. What if I didn’t have ADHD?
But I needed answers.
I was, in fact, diagnosed with ADHD. As soon as the Zoom call with my psychiatrist ended, an unbridled smile graced my lips. The diagnosis felt like closure—like I could finally shut the door on a toxic relationship with my own mind.
Despite my newfound peace, fresh doubts flooded my conscience. Had my lifelong struggles been for nothing, when this had been the answer all along? Delving into my memories, I looked for signs.
In elementary school, teachers got on to me for talking and not paying attention. I found it hard to focus, hard to keep my thoughts from spilling out of my mouth. I constantly battled with myself, torn between wanting to speak freely and the desire to be liked by authority figures. Emotional exhaustion consumed me.
As I got older, I convinced myself it was just a lack of self-control, which only spiraled into self-loathing. I was an emotionally intelligent child, and I could tell when someone was upset with me. A teacher would change their tone after I disrupted class one too many times, and I’d hate myself for not just being able to shut up.
Academics weren’t an issue, though it took effort to stay focused. The real problem showed in my “social butterfly” habits. I liked sharing my thoughts. I liked making people laugh. From what I gathered, most of my teachers enjoyed having me as a student, and the only times I would get in trouble were for chatting in classes.
But gaining my teachers’ approval mattered. Good grades were expected, and school was way more fun when teachers didn’t single me out like they did with some of my “troublemaker” classmates.
I wasn’t a “goody-two shoes,” but I absolutely hated getting in trouble. No fear compared to that of getting in trouble at school, not only because of the repercussions of missing out on recess, but also because I knew my parents would be disappointed in me.
I would’ve rather been burned at the stake than see the “I’m not mad, just disappointed,” look from my parents. Being aware that they believed I could do better was mortifying, and I couldn’t risk knowing that.
This fear, mixed with the constant need to speak my mind, was a frustrating combination. I wanted to be one of the “good” kids who listened and paid attention—but I couldn’t control myself.
Some days, my mom would ask why I couldn’t be more like my best friend. My best friend was kind, listened to her parents, got good grades and was well-liked by teachers. She was a responsible girl, and shared my interest in staying on the good side of authoritative figures.
I wished to be more like her, too.
In fifth grade, I lived a teacher’s pet’s worst nightmare: realizing one of my teachers didn’t like me. She was both my math and English teacher, meaning I would find myself in her classroom multiple times a day.
The class was often fun and off-topic, and though I occasionally got in trouble for talking, I did my work. I remember two boys who I thought were twice as disruptive as I was, yet she never reprimanded them. She actually seemed to favor them, which was ridiculous to me. Despite that, I liked this teacher. She was laid-back and never insulted anyone in the class.
Except for me.
Parent-teacher conferences rolled around that winter. My mom left me at home with my step-dad so that she could attend without me. It was relatively late when she got home, but I was still awake, sitting on the couch watching television. She sat beside me, her expression serious. I knew I was in trouble, but I didn’t know what I had done wrong. As far as I knew, I had good grades—what more could a parent want?
My mom told me about her conversation with my teacher. She relayed that I was “obnoxious” in class.
I was devastated. I could feel the betrayal twisting in my gut, turning into anger before calming into something more inward, something more self-inflicted. To realize my teacher didn’t only dislike me but found me obnoxious? Caught in a whirlwind of negative emotions, I could feel the lump in my throat. As my mother told me about my consequences—like more chores—all I could feel was self-hatred.
That night, I cried myself to sleep, dreading the next week of school. I guess the impact of my teacher’s words never crossed her mind. My usually positive mindset crumbled. Maybe if she had, I wouldn’t still think about that statement, even over 10 years later.
My issues with undiagnosed ADHD continued throughout middle school. My classes generally had the same people as elementary school, all of which I considered my friends. I attended a small, private Catholic school, so it was hard to not know everyone. I began to think about the possibility of having ADHD often, as I shared habits with some of my friends who had already been diagnosed. I ultimately pushed it aside, as I wasn’t very educated on the topic, and I figured it couldn’t be that simple.
In high school, it became easier to stay quiet. My shyness skyrocketed with the dawn of the Covid-19 pandemic and the switch from my tiny private school life to a public high school. I found solace in many of my high school teachers regarding the insecurities that fifth grade teacher had planted within me. I tended to have an immediate favoritism for English and arts teachers, as they were often the most empathetic and understanding towards me. They pushed me to be better than I thought I could be, and I am forever grateful for that.
My work ethic began to show itself when I realized that my grades would impact my future. My motivation, however, still relied heavily on academic validation and teacher approval.
I graduated 10th in my class. I did all of my homework. I earned several academic awards. So why did these achievements feel fraudulent? Why was it still so hard for me to focus on one task? And why, for the life of me, could I never walk into a room and remember what I had gone there for?
I felt undeserving—like something separated me from the other high-achieving students. They didn’t have the same difficulties doing basic tasks. In all, I didn’t feel like I was the same caliber of student. They all made it to the top out of sheer determination, and it almost felt like I was just there out of chance, even though I worked hard to get to that position.
A few months ago, I finally decided to see if ADHD was the root of it all. As it turns out— like everyone else had suspected—it was.
Since my diagnosis, new fears have surfaced. Why do I still feel out of place? I’ve never heard others talk about getting diagnosed in adulthood. I’m sure that it’s partially my own fault, as I’ve never searched for that on my own. But why should I have to go looking? Why isn’t it talked about more? Do I have to attend an ADHD support group just to hear about others’ experiences?
Growing up online, I never wanted to be someone who “self-diagnosed” as that was often criticized. Because of that, I never inherently associated myself with the neurodivergent community. Now I feel late to the party.
Even though I’ve had ADHD all my life, being diagnosed at the ripe age of 18 feels like a lie. ADHD is usually linked to genetics, so there really is no reason for me to sell myself short. But somehow, labeling it makes me feel unworthy.
Change has always been hard for me, no matter how small. It comes in many forms, and in this case it was merely the addition of a label. I can’t help but feel like I don’t belong, but hopefully comfort in my diagnosis will come with time. Self-acceptance is not an easy feat, but I’ve already made progress.
My 18 years of internal warfare were rough, but in the end, I have found the beginnings to my internal peace. It was not for nothing.
It is essential for more stories of late ADHD diagnoses to be publicized, to help people who share a similar experience and to create a safe place for those who feel the same as I did. Whether it is through journalism, music, books, movies or plays, these stories need to be heard.
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