Learning to Laugh

Most of the day is foggy, but I’ll never forget the day when my mother shared an article with me describing the prevalence of undiagnosed ADHD in highly-intelligent women. It was the first time I saw the words “intelligent” and “mental health” associated with one another and sticking.

I saw the description, and I recognized myself.

The phrase, “many are misdiagnosed with general anxiety as children” stuck out to me like a sore thumb. It transported me back to high school graduation when all of my friends were sitting with the top 10% of our graduating class, and I was next to a kid that was high on something stronger than weed, but not something I wanted to ask about.

“Look at how much you’ve accomplished with your anxiety!” my parents said as a consoling statement.

I was not consoled.

Anxiety didn’t stop me from doing my homework. What stopped me from doing my homework were the nearly flawless exam scores that indicated that maybe I didn’t need to practice with homework. Anxiety did not make my math exams the only bad exams. What hurt my math grade was the fact that unless a goal was presented in a word problem, I had little reason to care if the equation was balanced in the end. Anxiety did not lead me personally in to an emotionally abusive relationship. What brought me there was a fixation that could not be severed by self-thought alone. Anxiety wasn’t why I loved Jesus so much. What made me love Jesus was the fact that He was only person outside of Team Newton that I knew would love me forever.

Anxiety was not the reason why I struggled in life.

It was undiagnosed ADHD, masked socially by my love for each person in a room and academically by my slightly higher IQ which helped me discern the best way to approach questions in my own way.

So when I saw the phrase that I was misdiagnosed, I nearly jumped for joy. This was not to say that I thought ADHD was any better than anxiety, but rather it explained why I still struggled in life even though I was treated for anxiety.

Of course I still didn’t want to believe it was true.

I was fine

…right?

After I read the article, I sat down on top of a table on the Patton side of the Sixth Floor Penthouse and waited for my mother to call me. I sat in front of the doors of the residents I knew were either sleeping off a hangover or not in class. I made sure that I was closest to the people who didn’t know me very well that morning because that was the day I was going to go over the questionnaire Dr. Sharpe gave to patients who were considering an ADHD diagnosis.

My mother was going to administer the survey over the phone because I was just too against the idea of having a new mental health diagnosis. Yes, I was happy that I could say that my issues were less likely to be caused by anxiety, but I still didn’t want to believe that I was any different than anyone else.

After all, the only person I knew with ADHD prior to my diagnosis was one of the least successful people I knew in high school.

I wasn’t annoying like her.

I wasn’t bad at school like her.

“Yes you do do that,” my mother said with a chuckle over and over throughout the survey. Every time I wanted to be frustrated, my mom’s reassuring laugh reminded me that it wasn’t just about me. Maybe this diagnosis was helpful for my mom too. I didn’t want to continue with the survey, but I completed it all for her. Laughter was happy. I wanted my mom to be happy. After all, she was my best friend, and she still is my best friend.

I sat down with Dr. Sharpe, and we confirmed my diagnosis.

He gave me a drug and taught me how it worked. I loved Organic Chemistry, so he used my knowledge of chemistry to describe the drug. What with all of the art in his office, I could imagine Dr. Sharpe could connect with just about anyone.

Thus began my treatment of ADHD.

To be honest, I did not notice a difference at first.

What it took was my parents acknowledging the little things that were changing in my life. They pointed out that I could sit through an entire movie without having to get up between most scenes. They pointed out that I could ride in the car without asking how long we would be riding. They pointed out that I did not interrupt as much.

But I still had issues.

Class was boring to me now. Biochemistry, my favorite class until that point, was so easy that I felt like I didn’t need to be in the room anymore. Remember my ADHD was masked academically by my ability to think through problems on my own. Now the answers made sense to me in the “normal” way, and I did not want to be stuck in that room any longer than was necessary.

I still had many social issues. I interrupted people. I picked enemies and stuck with them. I made assumptions about myself in any group without even stopping to consider the fact that no one really cares about all of the little things.

My medication was close to perfect, but I still needed help adjusting.

Right after my diagnosis, people started coming out of the woodwork to tell me that they also had ADHD. Some of my sweetest friends had the same manifestation of the disorder, so much to the point that our testimonies sounded almost identical. These were smart, kind, and likeable people.

I did not expect the communal aspect of the ADHD life.

And yet it was that community which gave me the confidence to talk to my doctor about my dosage. It was that community which taught me the language to use with my parents about how I really felt.

Most importantly, it was the ADHD community that taught me that you don’t have to be so serious about ADHD.

I stopped being offended by ADHD jokes, and I started to make some of my own. In a way, making ADHD relatable and understandable to my neurotypical friends made me feel more in control than when I tried to keep it to myself and be serious about all of the unexpected side-effects of treatment and understanding the social aspect.

In the upcoming weeks, I will share the ADHD perks, but for now I will stay on this phase of ADHD treatment.

In response to how I was feeling, my doctor upped my dosage. Even though there was a dose in between the starting and the one he gave me, we went straight to the higher dose. I was a little unsettled by the change, but I trusted that my doctor knew what he was talking about. After all, ADHD is his specialty.

First day on my higher dose: I laid on the ground and stared at the ceiling for two hours straight without noticing. I forgot to eat.

Second day on my higher dose: my heart started beating irregularly and I felt like I was going to pass out, or throw up, or both.

Third day on my higher dose: I told myself that it wasn’t real and that I was just anxious about how I felt on a higher dose. I started to mask the fact that I didn’t feel well so that my doctor’s recommendation would be correct. The default is to mask.

After two weeks of an irregular heartbeat and paranoia, I told my mother how gross I felt. Then I told my father. Together we made it so that I could take the middle dose. I wanted to go back to my original dose, but they insisted that we at least try the middle dosage.

I am so glad they did.

Because once you hit your “sweet spot,” it is like night and day.

When I say that it is like night and day, I mean to say it’s more like dusk and dawn. No matter how many medications you try, no matter how many therapists you see, no matter how long you’ve been treated for ADHD, there are still going to be missed connections and problems you have to work out on your own.

Being on the wrong dosage is like being in dusk.

You can see, but not very well. It’s more dark than light, but you can’t turn on your headlights just yet. They say that that is the most dangerous time to drive because you can easily miss a kid running across the street or miss a street sign because of poor vision.

When you’re on the wrong dose, you can focus, but more often than not it helps you focus on what isn’t quite right in your life.

And because it isn’t quite right, but just right enough, you lack the motivation to do anything about it.

My bedroom is the perfect indication of dusk. 

They say that it is important to keep things organized when you have ADHD. Translation? You need to clean your room. Determined to prove to myself that I could do anything, even with a developmental disorder, I attempted to clean my room. I still laugh when I think about my first few attempts at getting organized.

My floor was cleared.

My clothes were washed.

But all of my stuff was just thrown on to shelves, and my clean clothes just stayed in the clean hamper because “it’s organized enough.”

Now look at the dawn.

When you are on the correct treatment, the fuzziness of your mind clears up quite a bit. However, because ADHD is a developmental disorder, there are many things that will never be fixed by a medication. We have less neurons in our brain, and as a result, we have fewer opportunities to make a connection in our brains. Again, this can be a perk, but I will save that for later.

Working memory will always be difficult, but on the proper dosage, it lasts a little longer.

Interacting with the opposite gender will always be a little more uncomfortable, but on the proper dosage, it is only as nerve wracking as it would be for a neurotypical.

Sticking with an activity will always be a challenge, but on the proper dosage, it is easier to maintain motivation.

When I was put on the proper dosage, my room suddenly became organized and cleaned. I washed the walls, vacuumed, and even dusted. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but my room was finally livable. I wasn’t ashamed to invite my residents over for cookies and conversation anymore. I didn’t have to lie to my mom that I cleaned my room anymore.

It was hard to get to the right dosage, but it revolutionized my life.

There is a point that I will make next week about treatment. As your brain adjusts to proper activity, it starts to change. This is called synaptic plasticity, and it is a normal biological function. However, as the connections change and are strengthened, the dosage and even medication you will have to take will also change.

ADHD is not a one and done sort of disorder.

ADHD is developmental, which means that every development in the brain has an impact on treatment.

But with a community and trust in your doctor, your life will change.