Sometimes I wish I didn’t have ADHD

Tonight’s been rough. 

So much of my conversations can focus on how tricky it can be parenting someone with neurodiversity. I get weekly emails from ADHD experts talking about reframing language and building resilience as parents. And, as is so often the way, we are the centres of our own universe and focus in on our experience. 

Tonight, seemingly out of nowhere Smalley said he sometimes wishes he doesn’t have ADHD. That he thinks he’s too different from other people. That it makes it hard for people to understand him. And that he feels his ADHD is getting worse and worse 

There were tears. Lots of them. Some held back, some he allowed to flood forward. 

As a little unit, Smalley, Dad and me, we talked about medications, friendship, achievement and development. We talked about effort, energy and identity. We held each other right, we thanked him for his courage and his honesty. 

Through his diagnosis last August, the move to meds in September, the check ups and discussions with teachers we’ve taken the approach of honesty and openness. But I do worry at times that can be too much for a young  brain. It’s no small thing to differentiate labels from identity and our differences from the differences everyone feels. 

We ended today’s talk comparing ADHD to the scar on Smalley’s arm. It’s part of him, but most people don’t even know it’s there. It shapes him, but doesn’t define him. Sometimes he’ll acknowledge it, but mostly it just lives alongside him. A tiny part of a much bigger more beautiful whole.