Diagnosed with ADHD at age 30

I know this feeling all too well. Heavy heart and a pit in the stomach. I have been purposefully training myself for this for years: perfecting the art of holding back tears.

I had tons of practice early on. Years spent in church and school were spent holding back tears until I could no longer bear it.

I was always too something.

Too much. Too sensitive. Too emotional. Too quiet. Too loud. Laughs too loud. Talks too much. Too shy.

Now, I had the opposite problem. I drove home in silence while desperately willing tears to well up in my eyes with no luck. The downside of taking antidepressants and perfecting the art of holding back tears was that I couldn’t cry when I was finally ready to release the emotion.

Human emotions are weird and complicated enough already, but being diagnosed with ADHD at age 30 was a heartbreaking relief.

I was struggling with a neurological condition my whole life, not lazy or simply not trying hard enough.

Was my interest in psychology solely a desperate attempt to understand how and why my own brain seemed to work differently than everyone else’s and why I couldn’t keep up?

I remember being in first grade, sitting at a desk in a trailer, staring blankly at an open book while feigning great focus. Our teacher addressed the noisy class, asking why couldn’t the rest of the class sit still and read quietly like me? I remember feeling great pride mixed with confusion. I was so good, wasn’t I? Behaving well like a model student and child. But I wasn’t reading, I thought. I couldn’t read. I couldn’t focus with so much activity going on around me. Yet, I was able to fake it, and sit quietly like a “good kid.” I’m not reading but she thinks I am, I thought.

So I masked.

I wore a mask of perfectionism and people-pleasing. I excelled in school and always tried my best to display model behavior. I desperately sought the approval of adults. If they say I am a good kid, maybe there is nothing wrong with me. Maybe I am good enough.

How damaging it must be for children with ADHD who are labeled as bad kids, disruptive, behavior problems, etc. These labels are disproportionately given to boys, due to the different presentation of symptoms. At least I wasn’t a “bad” kid, I could win the approval of my teachers with silence and stillness despite my daydreaming.

As an adult and educator myself, I relate to the frustration of a child who seems unfocused. You are simply trying to do your job: teach children. Often you are trying to teach them about a topic or subject you are deeply passionate about. It can feel like betrayal when a class reacts with apathy, or worse, disdain.

Driving in silence, I could hear the loudness surrounding me in the outside world. A woman walking her dog. A couple walking down the street. Other cars whizzing by. I thought about how I felt protected and encapsulated within my small car.

Finally, the tears overcame me. The world was loud around me yet it was quiet and calm in the refuge of my car. I felt safe enough to full-on ugly cry. The tears continued streaming as I unlocked the front door of my home. As I turned to shut the door, my head fell immediately forward. I was suddenly pained by irony. Behind closed doors, I finally felt safe; behind closed doors, some of my students are unsafe.

As I sit here and reflect on the school counselor I was a year ago, who was struggling, defeated, burnt out, hurt… I would tell her the pain is still very deep. But it becomes more bearable because of the kids who feel safety in our presence. Experiencing vulnerability and perhaps divulging something for the very first time after years of living it.