Snide Reply

Category: ADHD

  • I’d Rather Be Bipolar

    I’d Rather Be Bipolar

    Mental disorders are common on my mother’s side of the family—schizophrenia, panic, anxiety, and substance use disorders. No one on my father’s side was officially diagnosed, but there was certainly alcoholism and likely depression. I’ve got the DNA to support my bipolar disorder diagnosis.

    In my own family, we deal with anxiety and depression, as well as a host of other conditions: ADHD, OCD, and PTSD. Some are surely genetic; others stem from childhood trauma.

    Knowing what I do, I’d rather be bipolar.

    Schizophrenia brings voices, delusions, and hallucinations into your life.

    Bipolar disorder can also bring delusions and episodes of invincibility—but I’ve never been convinced I was being followed by demons whispering abusive, demeaning comments to me.

    I’ve panicked—real panic—not the kind you feel when you think you left your phone in the Meijer parking lot. But I’ve never been unable to attend school because I forgot the rings I planned to wear that day.

    I’ve seen a student assign colors to subjects, requiring a perfectly matched set of folders, notebooks, and highlighters for each—thanks to OCD. Of course, one subject can’t possibly borrow supplies from another.

    I’ve seen ADHD make reading nearly impossible.

    I’ve also been deeply depressed. In fact, I was initially diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder. That’s a common misdiagnosis for those of us with bipolar disorder. After all, mania and hypomania can feel good. Who would want that to end? But it does. Depression always follows—and that’s when we seek help. If you can ride it out, the depression eventually lifts. Regular depression often doesn’t.

    So yes, I’d rather be bipolar.

    Recently, I commented on a YouTube short about how to respond to people who make sarcastic remarks. Frankly, I thought the expert advice was off target—suggestions like, “Would you like to repeat that?” or “How would you like me to respond to that?” Talk about snark!

    I replied that I have bipolar disorder and often make snide remarks myself. Another commenter responded by saying she felt sorry for me, that bipolar disorder is terrible.

    I’m sure she meant well.

    But there are worse things in life than being bipolar.

    What’s your experience with mental health labels or misdiagnoses? Whether you’re living it, supporting someone, or simply curious—I’d love to know how mental health challenges affect you. Leave a comment below or share this with someone who might need it. And if this post resonated with you, consider subscribing for more personal reflections on mental health and society.

  • The Signs of Success

    The Signs of Success

    The street I live on is lined with black and gold signs—the school colors of the nearby high school—displayed proudly in front of homes with graduating seniors.

    Beyond graduation announcements, several signs highlight the next educational step:

    Kids heading to DePaul, Northwestern, University of Illinois, and a handful of other Big Ten universities.

    The most coveted names—Harvard, Yale, University of Chicago—pop up now and then.

    It’s the season of pride—pride in someone else’s accomplishments: our children’s.

    What you don’t see:

    “College of DuPage Bound” signs.

    Attending community college, while financially wise, doesn’t seem sign-worthy.

    Facebook Feeds of Pride

    Facebook is even more saturated with parental pride.

    I don’t use it as much these days. Instead of seeing updates from my friends, I was seeing what their kids were doing—and they were all succeeding in the ways society measures success.

    Of course, parents should be proud of their children.

    But all this pride production comes at a steep cost.

    Success Beyond the Signs

    My kids are amazing—though neither of them went to Brown.

    They’ve achieved things that largely go unnoticed.

    High school wasn’t hard for my son.

    But academic success was—thanks in large part to ADHD.

    He could match the top students on tests, but couldn’t remember to bring home, do, return, or turn in assignments.

    His behavior, not his intelligence, kept him from being recognized.

    He’s a talented musician, too—drums at age three, later guitar and bass.

    But his school had few opportunities for someone whose music fits better in a mosh pit than a music hall.

    Following high school, he found a job where his inability to sit still was an advantage. He worked hard and was able to buy a house in his twenties. Not a condo—a drummer needs a basement, after all.

    My Daughter: Persistence Grapples With Emotional Health

    My daughter’s achievements are equally impressive.

    She was driven from the start. I remember one day in grade school:

    “I failed, Mom,” she said.

    I was surprised—she never failed anything in school. I asked about her grade.

    “I failed,” she repeated.

    “It doesn’t matter! I failed!”

    Then it dawned on me.

    “Honey, did you fail—or did you fail to get the grade you wanted?” She nodded. I asked what grade she had received, expecting a B, maybe a C.

    “I got an A,” she cried.

    “What on earth grade did you want?” I practically shouted.

    “I wanted an A+,” she wailed.“I failed, Mom,” she said, visibly upset.

    But high school hit differently.

    She took honors English and Social Studies. She was on the accelerated math track, and a cheerleader.

    Her days were packed—practice, dinner, then homework until she fell asleep with her head on her book, then woke to finish at 2 a.m.

    By sophomore year, she broke—physically and mentally.

    School attendance became impossible. Then, everything but sleep became impossible.

    Eventually, with an IEP and a transfer to virtual school, she graduated.

    Despite dealing with anxiety disorder, OCD, and major depressive disorder, she persevered.

    She’s been working since 16, is now 22, and already planning her retirement with a financial advisor.

    What Gets Recognition?

    I pass by my kids’ old high school every day on my way to work.

    The sign out front rotates between celebrating the school’s state ranking and its students’ academic and athletic successes.

    At the schools where I teach robotics and STEM, the cultural and economic realities are vastly different—but the emphasis on achievement is just as strong.

    Test scores are posted on bulletin boards—but only the high ones.

    Perfect attendance gets stars. A single sick day makes perfection impossible.

    Rethinking What We Celebrate

    Achievement is deeply personal, yet we’ve made it a universal, quantifiable metric:

    • Get A’s
    • Win awards
    • Come in first
    • Earn scholarships
    • Get into “the best” college

    But what if we celebrated something else?

    I’m not talking about the “everyone is a winner” trophy—students know that’s a crock.

    They know what gets real recognition.

    It’s not that they aren’t achieving amazing things.

    It’s that the amazing things they do aren’t the ones we put on signs.

  • Check it out! I guest blogged!

    Ordinarily, I eschew exclamation points in my writing but, golly gee, someone asked me to write for his blog and I did it! You can check out a bit of my experience parenting my son through one of the darkest times of both of our lives here:  http://blackboxwarnings.wordpress.com/2012/06/28/a-tale-of-two-meds-and-one-teen/

    Read the other posts, too. The man who started the blog is also dealing with a son with ADHD and the meds that come along with it. And there are others who posted as well. It’s a valuable, developing resource for those of us taking drugs with black box warnings (means they can lead to all kinds of nasty side effects, like suicidal ideation and other fun things) and parenting kids taking those drugs.

  • I Don’t Have ADH. . .

    It’s not like we weren’t paying attention. In fact, with only one child, paying attention was never an issue for us as parents. He had our full attention and we thought everything he did was amazing and wonderful.

    We were so in love with him, in fact, that we had a positive explanation for the range of his eccentric behaviors. Running full tilt into a wall for fun? He needs extra stimulation. Lying in the grass in left field, tossing his mitt in the air and catching it, while his teammates are attempting to win a game? Well, who wouldn’t be bored playing left field? Circling the little boy next to him then taking a bite out of his arm while the teacher reads a book on sharks? He has a vivid imagination.

    It wasn’t until we adopted our daughter and were no longer focused solely on our son that it came to our attention that he had a problem with focus. And staying still. And keeping his hands off of things. And blurting out ridiculous statements.

    What did we do about it? We tolerated it. We even encouraged some of it. Really, who wouldn’t be amused by a child who blurts out “Chicken!” at random moments throughout the day? While I knew that his tendency to hang on people (their bodies, not their words), was annoying, I figured he’d learn more from the annoyed taking a swat at him than from my constant nagging. Nope.

    Then he went to middle school. And he started failing. And failing. And failing. We tried punishments. He continued failing. We tried inducements. He continued failing. We talked to his teachers. He continued failing. We tried a homework completion spreadsheet. He failed to complete it, even when he completed the homework.

    He hated writing; he hated reading. His handwriting was so terrible that even if he had the right answer, if the teacher couldn’t read it, what was the point? We coaxed, we cajoled. We checked homework. We reminded. We crossed our fingers. We sacrificed goats. His grades didn’t improve.

    Eventually, he was referred to an interventionist. At this point, I need to make sure you understand that he hated writing, couldn’t remember his assignments and, if he did his assignments, couldn’t remember to hand them in. We’ll ignore for a moment the fact that he was still blurting out things like “I like pie” and hanging on people.

    RTI, response to intervention, is all the rage in schools these days, the goal being to intervene before the child fails. Obviously, we got to it a little late. Still, I was thrilled that our son would be getting help.

    First recommendation from the interventionist was to have him practice writing to a prompt as soon as he came home from school. Second recommendation from the interventionist was to have him track everything he did every half hour from the time he came home until he went to bed.

    There is no witty way to describe my reaction to these recommendations. I believe I said something to my husband like, “Are they freaking crazy?” Still, we tried the tracking thing. It worked if I followed him around and badgered him into filling in the little half-hour blocks. Most of them had notes like, “Argued with Mom.” This, I told myself, is insane. Actually, I probably used the past participle of an “F” word.

    And my son continued to fail. Abandoning the little half-hour blocks and the afterschool writing torture, we sought the advice of other experts. Eventually, thousands of dollars and four professionals later, we had a diagnosis: ADHD.

    Well, duh, you say.

    Yeah, duh, I say. I spent a lot of time kicking myself for turning over every stone looking for solutions while ignoring the big one in the middle of the path. I’m still kicking myself but at least now I’m doing it while I’m learning everything I can about ADHD.

    While it’s a relief to know what we’re up against, we’re up against a pretty formidable foe. Routines and habits are essential coping mechanisms. Tell that to a teen. I’m not even going near the nutrition suggestions yet. He needs all the calories he can get to counter the weight-loss that accompanies his medication routine. Down the road a little, we’ll have to worry about driving. He’s not pushing it and neither are we. Kids with ADHD get more tickets and have more accidents. They are also more likely to abuse drugs and alcohol. We’ll cross those bridges when we get to them, but we’re looking ahead so we’ll be prepared.

    In the meantime, I’ve learned that people can be pretty goofy about ADHD. Some people think it’s over-diagnosed. That may be the case, but after resisting the appellation for more than five years, I’m pretty sure we’re finally barking up the right tree. Other people make jokes about it, blaming their day-to-day forgetfulness and distractibility on the disorder.

    ADHD jokes don’t really bother me all that much, but I wondered what my son felt about them. So I asked.

    “I don’t care,” he said, then mentioned a friend who calls it “ADSO.”

    “ADSO?” I asked.

    “Yeah. Attention Deficit. . .Shiny Object!” he said. “But mostly I tell my own jokes.”

    “Really?” I asked. “What are some of your ADHD jokes?”

    “You think I remember?” he said.