My ADHD Doesn't Just Affect Me — Ask My Family

I don't think I've ever really explained my ADHD.

Not properly.

I've joked about it. I've blamed things on it. I've probably said, “Sorry, ADHD,” about 14,000 times.

But when I really think about how much it has affected my life—and the lives of the people who love me—I don't think distracted even begins to describe it.

For me, ADHD has been life-altering.

And as far back as I can remember, it has always been there.

I Always Knew I Was Different

Even as a child, I knew I was different.

I didn't have a name for it.

I just knew I didn't quite fit.

Friendships were hard.

Some of that was because of what was happening in my home. When you're carrying things no child should have to carry, it's hard to relate to other kids whose lives seem completely different from yours.

But it wasn't only that.

I was different from them.

I felt things differently.

I behaved differently.

My brain seemed to work differently.

And children know when they don't fit, even when nobody has actually said the words.

I learned early how to look like I was paying attention.

Although, to be fair, eye contact has never been my thing.

I'm a fidgeter.

I'll move my hands, play with something, shift around, look somewhere else—anything except sit perfectly still and stare into someone's eyes while they're talking to me.

But I learned how to look like I was following along.

Occasional nod? Check.

Appropriate facial expression? Usually.

Actually know what the hell you just said?

Not a clue.

I can remember being around Grade 4 and having a teacher get incredibly angry with me because I hadn't done my homework.

He called me stupid.

The problem was, I hadn't deliberately refused to do the homework.

I had no idea what he was talking about.

Somewhere between him explaining the assignment and me leaving that classroom, the information had disappeared.

But nobody knew that.

I certainly didn't.

So instead of somebody wondering why this little girl wasn't retaining what she was being told, I got another little notch carved into my already struggling self-esteem:

You're stupid.

Those words have a way of sticking around much longer than the people who say them realize.

So What Caused It?

I've wondered about this a lot.

Was I simply born with ADHD?

How much did my childhood trauma affect the way my brain learned to function?

How much of what I experience today is ADHD, how much is PTSD, and how much is the two of them tangled together?

I don't know.

What I do know is that I was never a safe child.

Home wasn't a safe place for me.

So I learned very young that even when my body couldn't leave somewhere, my mind could.

I could travel away from the reality I was physically standing in and go somewhere else inside my head.

Somewhere safer.

Somewhere I had control.

Somewhere whatever was happening around me couldn't completely reach me.

Being mentally present in my physical surroundings was difficult for me long before I knew words like ADHD, PTSD, dissociation or trauma.

I was just a little girl who figured out how to go somewhere else.

ADHD is understood to have a strong biological and genetic component, so I'm not saying my childhood trauma caused my ADHD.

Maybe ADHD was always there.

But sometimes I wonder whether some of the very things that make adulthood difficult for me actually helped that little girl survive childhood.

My ability to disappear into my own mind.

To become completely absorbed somewhere else.

To tune out what was happening around me.

To mentally travel somewhere my body couldn't go.

Maybe the brain I spent so many years being angry with was doing exactly what it needed to do at the time.

Maybe what became difficult later in life helped me survive something earlier in life.

I don't know.

But I've stopped asking only:

“What's wrong with me?”

And started asking:

“What did my brain learn to do when I needed it most?”

My ADHD Has Two Speeds

People hear ADHD and imagine someone who can't concentrate.

Oh, I can concentrate.

Sometimes I can concentrate so intensely that the rest of civilization could collapse and I wouldn't notice.

When I become interested in something, I can hyperfocus on it until I've researched it, learned it, figured it out and mastered it.

And then?

I'm done.

Rob says this about me all the time:

I find something, learn it, master it and move on before he even knows I'm doing it.

He's not wrong.

By the time everyone else has figured out what my new interest is, I've already completed the research, ordered the supplies, built a business plan, changed the business plan, found something wrong with the original idea and moved on to something completely different.

Then there are the times when my brain looks at a perfectly reasonable task and says:

Absolutely not.

Where do I start?

Which part comes first?

Why are there seven steps?

Maybe I should do something else first.

Actually, while I'm here, I should reorganize this.

Wait.

What was I doing?

Thankfully, that complete paralysis doesn't happen to me as often.

My more common setting is:

START ALL THE THINGS.

I can jump from one activity to another faster than anyone around me can possibly keep up.

I know where I'm going.

Until I don't.

Reminders Are Adorable

People love giving ADHD advice.

“You should set a reminder.”

Oh.

A reminder.

Why didn't I think of that?

My phone reminds me of things all day long.

Apparently my brain has classified notifications as decorative.

Ding!

Do the thing.

My brain: Absolutely.

Three seconds later:

What thing?

It's not intentional.

That's one of the hardest things to explain.

I'm not forgetting because something isn't important to me.

I'm not ignoring someone because I don't care.

Sometimes the information simply doesn't stay where I put it.

And when I tell people I forget things, I'm not talking about occasionally forgetting a dentist appointment.

I have forgotten my children places.

Yes.

My actual children.

And before anyone calls Child Protective Services, they're adults now.

They survived.

They also have plenty of material for therapy.

There was the time I was shopping with my twin boys and my baby.

I got everyone out to the vehicle, loaded the twins in, got myself organized, climbed into the driver's seat and drove away.

Notice anyone missing from that story?

THE BABY.

I had left my baby sitting in the shopping cart.

And drove away.

Thankfully, those lovely little boys started yelling a couple of minutes later that I had forgotten the baby.

I went back.

She was fine.

Everything was fine.

And today we can tell the story and laugh because nothing happened.

But let's be very clear:

Something could have.

It could have been a life-altering disaster.

That's the uncomfortable side of these stories.

Sometimes they're hilarious twenty years later only because the ending was okay.

Then there was school pickup.

My youngest daughter was unfortunately very familiar with being the last child waiting to be picked up.

I will never forget one particular day.

Ironically.

Because apparently this is the thing my brain decided to keep forever.

I had forgotten to pick her up.

Again.

By the time I got there, I was panicked, crying and absolutely sick with myself.

She got into the vehicle in a completely justified huff, threw her backpack onto the floor and looked straight at me.

Right into my panicked, tear-filled eyes.

Then, with all the disgust a child could possibly fit into three words, she announced:

“WORST. MOTHER. EVER.”

And what exactly was I supposed to say?

She wasn't wrong about how she felt.

At that moment, I felt like the worst mother ever too.

I loved my children more than anything in the world.

And yet I kept forgetting things involving the people who mattered most to me.

I didn't know how to explain it to my daughter.

I didn't know how to make it better.

I didn't even understand it myself.

I was barely coping.

And that's where the funny ADHD stories stop being quite so funny.

Because my daughter didn't experience that day as Mom has ADHD.

She experienced it as:

Mom forgot me. Again.

My intention didn't change her experience.

My love for her didn't make standing there waiting any easier.

Understanding my ADHD now doesn't erase what it was like for her then.

ADHD may explain why something happened.

It doesn't mean it didn't hurt someone else.

Conversations Are Basically a Game Show

This still happens to me.

Someone is talking to me.

I'm fidgeting, but I'm following along.

Or at least I think I'm following along.

And then suddenly I become aware that they are still talking and I have absolutely no idea what they've said for the last several minutes.

Now I have a decision to make.

Option A: Admit I heard none of it and ask them to start again.

Option B: Continue nodding and hope my facial expressions match the story.

This is a dangerous game.

Because sometimes people aren't telling you a funny story.

Sometimes they're asking you a question.

Sometimes they're asking permission.

Sometimes they're asking you to agree to something.

And apparently I am extremely agreeable when I have no idea what is happening.

My kids figured this out.

I'd wonder where one of them was.

“Mom, I told you I was going out.”

No, you didn't.

“Yes, I did. You said yes.”

Well.

Apparently Fake Listening Mom authorized this excursion because Actual Mom has no recollection of the meeting.

I have literally agreed to things while having absolutely no idea what I was agreeing to.

It sounds funny.

Sometimes it is.

But imagine realizing halfway through a conversation with someone you love that you haven't heard a word they've said.

Not because they're boring.

Not because you don't care.

Your brain just...

left.

Then There's Fire

Have you ever forgotten something in the oven?

Cute.

Have you ever forgotten something on the barbecue until it became a small emergency?

Welcome to my house.

I actually had to remove the fire alert from my alarm system because my cooking incidents were costing me money.

I'll give you a moment to absorb that.

My ADHD became a recurring billing issue.

That's funny.

It is.

Until you think about the fact that leaving things cooking isn't particularly funny.

That's the strange thing about living with ADHD.

Some of my funniest stories are funny because nothing terrible happened.

And Driving? Oh, Driving.

Have you ever arrived somewhere and thought:

How did I get here?

I have.

Have you ever left your house to go somewhere, driven for a while and suddenly realized you have forgotten where you were going?

Also me.

Sometimes I'll remember I was supposed to go somewhere while realizing I am currently driving somewhere completely different.

My brain apparently offers complimentary mystery tours.

No booking required.

I didn't decide to forget where I was going.

I knew where I was going when I left.

Somewhere along the way, my brain simply picked up another thought and ran away with it.

Unfortunately, the rest of me—and the vehicle—went with it.

ADHD Doesn't Only Happen to the Person Who Has It

This is probably the part I understand more now than I did when I was younger.

My ADHD affects me.

But it also affects the people who live with me.

It affects the person who tells me something important and realizes five minutes later that I didn't hear them.

It affects the person waiting for me to finish one thing while I'm suddenly doing four others.

It affects Rob when I disappear down another hyperfocus rabbit hole and emerge having somehow learned an entirely new subject.

It affects the people who remind me about something, only to watch me forget the reminder.

And it affected my children when they were young.

There have probably been times when people I love interpreted my behaviour as something it wasn't.

Maybe they thought I wasn't listening because I didn't care.

Maybe they thought I forgot because they weren't important.

Maybe they thought I was ignoring them.

Maybe they thought I was choosing something else over them.

That's the part that isn't funny.

Because I can love someone deeply and still not hear what they just said.

I can desperately want to remember something and still forget it.

I can know something is important and somehow get sidetracked by six completely unrelated things.

Intent and impact aren't always the same thing.

Understanding my ADHD isn't about giving myself an excuse for everything I've ever done.

It's about finally understanding why some things have always been so incredibly difficult for me—and figuring out what I can do differently now.

The Shame Was Almost Worse Than the ADHD

For most of my life, I didn't have an explanation.

I had labels.

Lazy.

Forgetful.

Careless.

Disorganized.

Too much.

Not trying hard enough.

And, thanks to that teacher all those years ago:

Stupid.

When you hear those things enough, eventually you stop thinking:

Something is making this difficult for me.

You start thinking:

Something is wrong with me.

That feeling followed me well into adulthood.

I always felt like people were judging me.

And in all fairness?

They probably were.

I mean, I was a hot mess.

Actually, hot mess might be an understatement.

Unresolved childhood trauma.

Undiagnosed ADHD.

PTSD.

And God only knows what else was happening in there.

Throw in absolutely no understanding of why I behaved, reacted, forgot, struggled or felt the way I did, and you've got yourself one hell of a cocktail.

I wasn't exactly presenting as Woman Who Has Her Shit Together.

I was trying desperately to look like a functioning human being while having absolutely no idea how everyone else seemed to do it so naturally.

And yes, people judged me.

But here's what all those years eventually taught me.

Stop Judging People Who Are Struggling

Seriously.

Stop.

Put your hand out.

Offer support.

Ask if they're okay.

Give them some grace.

And if you can't do any of those things?

Go home.

You don't have to understand someone's behaviour to have compassion for them.

You have no idea what another person has survived.

You don't know what they're dealing with when they close their front door.

You don't know what their brain is doing to them.

You don't know how much energy they're using just trying to appear like a functioning individual while everything inside them is screaming.

And you certainly don't know how hard they're trying.

Your judgment isn't going to fix them.

Your whispering isn't going to motivate them.

Your criticism isn't going to suddenly make their brain function differently.

Sometimes all you've accomplished is giving that person one more thing to obsess about at 3:17 in the morning.

Why did she say that?

Did everyone think that?

Was I embarrassing?

Why am I like this?

I should have said something different.

Maybe they don't like me.

Congratulations.

You've moved into their brain rent-free, and some of us already have a serious housing shortage up there.

If you can't support someone who is struggling, at least have the decency to walk away without adding another wound.

Maybe That's Why I'm the Weakest Link

My family says I'm the weakest link because I'll help everybody.

And they're not entirely wrong.

I will help.

And help.

And help.

Until eventually I can't anymore.

For a long time, I wondered why I'm like that too.

I think I understand it a little better now.

It's because I remember what it feels like to be the person everybody thinks should just get it together.

I remember feeling inadequate.

Strange.

Stupid.

Alone.

Different.

And not worthy.

I remember desperately trying to look normal while having absolutely no idea what normal was supposed to feel like.

So when I see someone struggling, maybe I recognize something.

Maybe somewhere inside that adult who's falling apart, behaving strangely, forgetting everything, making terrible decisions or simply not coping very well...

I see her.

That little girl who didn't fit.

That young woman everybody thought was a hot mess.

The woman who didn't need another person pointing out everything she was doing wrong.

She needed somebody to look at her and wonder:

“What happened to you?”

instead of:

“What is wrong with you?”

Maybe that's why I'm the weakest link.

If compassion makes me weak, I suppose I'll have to live with that.

Because I've spent enough of my life being judged.

I have no interest in becoming one of the people who made someone else feel the way I once did.

Maybe My Brain Was Trying to Protect Me Before I Ever Had to Manage It

And that brings me back to that little girl.

The one who learned how to leave without physically going anywhere.

She learned how to disappear inside her own mind when reality wasn't somewhere she wanted—or was able—to stay.

As an adult, that same ability to disappear can frustrate the hell out of me.

I miss conversations.

I forget things.

I hyperfocus.

I jump from one thing to another.

My brain can be ten miles away while my body is standing right in front of you.

But I have a little more compassion for it now.

Because maybe some of the things I spent decades hating about myself once served a purpose.

Maybe ADHD was there all along.

Maybe trauma taught my brain additional ways to escape.

Maybe some things overlap so much I'll never know exactly where one ends and another begins.

And maybe I don't need to.

What I do know is that the little girl I spent years thinking wasn't good enough was doing the best she could with what she had.

So was the young mother crying in the car because she'd forgotten her daughter again.

So was the young woman everybody thought was a hot mess.

Understanding that doesn't magically fix ADHD.

It doesn't undo the things I've forgotten.

It doesn't erase the times my children were affected.

And it certainly doesn't put out whatever I left burning on the barbecue.

But it changes the way I talk to myself about it.

And that matters.

Living With Me Deserves Some Kind of Award

Listen.

I'm not going to romanticize ADHD.

There are parts of it I genuinely hate.

There are consequences.

There is frustration.

And saying “I have ADHD” doesn't magically undo the impact on everyone else.

But there is also humour.

Because if my family and I didn't laugh sometimes, we'd all lose our minds.

These people have survived forgotten conversations, abandoned projects, random hyperfixations, missed reminders, mystery drives, questionable cooking incidents and conversations I apparently participated in but cannot confirm.

My children survived being forgotten.

Rob survives finding out about my latest obsession approximately three minutes before I've mastered it and moved on to the next one.

My family deserves some kind of hero cookie.

Maybe a medal.

Possibly compensation.

Living with me is anything but boring.

But underneath all the comedy is something I wish more people understood:

ADHD isn't simply being distracted.

It isn't just losing your keys.

It isn't a cute personality quirk.

For some of us, it reaches into almost every part of our lives—our relationships, parenting, work, safety, confidence and memories.

And sometimes understanding that comes much later in life.

I can't go back and explain ADHD to the little girl sitting in that classroom wondering why everyone else seemed to know what they were supposed to be doing.

I can't go back and tell the younger mother who forgot things and thought that meant she was a terrible parent that there was more going on.

I can't go back and protect the young woman who felt judged everywhere she went.

But I can understand all three of them now.

I can take responsibility for the ways my ADHD affects the people around me without continuing to punish myself for not understanding something I didn't yet know.

And maybe I can look at somebody else who's a bit of a hot mess and remember:

I don't know their story yet.

So to my family:

Thank you for repeating yourselves.

Thank you for reminding me again after I ignored the reminder reminding me about the first reminder.

Thank you for occasionally telling me where I was going.

Thank you for surviving my cooking.

Thank you for loving me through the years when none of us understood what the hell was going on.

And thank you for loving a woman whose brain usually has 37 tabs open—

and nobody knows which one is playing music.

Including me.

Love, laughter, and a little bit of chaos,

Fina

Veni, vidi, vici