Is This Thing On?

A Note From My First Week on ADD Medication

That subtitle took a lot of humility to type.

I’m just not the medication kind of girl, or I haven’t been before now.

I hate taking anything for a headache, I power through menstrual cramps, I stick garlic cloves in my kid’s ears if they have earaches, and I made it through eight hours of unmedicated labor.

This isn’t a brag fact; it’s just the way I’m built—like the truck. Built Ford tough.

I power through things. Because up until last week, I felt I had no other choice than to white-knuckle-tight grip, power through things. I felt to stand by my motto of Buffaloing through life, that the Buffalo had to be miserable to be strong.

You don’t have to be miserable to be strong.

I think that my stance is twofold.

One: I know I have a high tolerance for pain, both physical and mental, so sometimes I wonder if taking something would help at all?

And two: I don’t want anyone to ever think I chose the easy way out? Trust me, I know that sounds unhealthy. Asinine really, why would one woman think that doing something the hard way would be more noble or worthy…I think it’s because I was raised by Boomer people who were raised by Great Depression people. They did hard and they did it well, and they definitely judged you if you had an easier road. Is this what they call, *waves hands in the air* cycle breaking?

We don’t get trophies at the end of our life for doing everything hard. But I also know that with every single choice you make there is risk vs. reward.

Gas station sushi, tanning beds, sharing cigarettes with your girlfriends on Mom’s Night Out, ordering from Temu, blind dates, and medication. All of those are rewarding in their own way (even the sushi), but each come with a level of risk. Up until last week—I had myself convinced that there were only risks and no rewards to helping my ADD. What if I didn’t even have it anymore?

As if, neurodivergence is like heartburn—it comes and goes.

I was in denial, really. Each morning I would wake up and could name at least twenty different streamlines of thought. Songs stuck in my head, meal prep, soccer prep, tutors, summer camps, my parents, friendships that needed mending, coffee, appointments, a dumb thing I said at a friend’s house six months ago..and on..and on..and on.

Before I explain the journey my brain has been on, well my whole life, but more so in this last week—I feel like I need to also tell you, in deep earnest, that I have tried.

I have tried every meditation tactic, herbal supplement, time-block strategy, paper calendar, digital calendar, post-it notes, ashwagandha, keep your shoes on trick, and podcast lesson. I’ve spent thousands of dollars in the last decade on everything my algorithm could sell me on focus, energy, and calm. Probiotics for mental clarity or vitamins for attention—I tried it all. And what my algorithm didn’t suggest—I tried all those things too.

In reflecting on my years spent in a state of frustration and overstimulation—it occurred to me that the same self-soothing tactics I threw at my grief, are the same erratic tools I tried to fix my attention and mental focus.

I was in a constant state of searching.

If I could just find the thing that would turn my brain off.

If I could just see the thing, hear the song, find the right item or podcast—then I could focus. I would seek doomscrolling, just knowing that the next video would be the scratch my brain needed to get realigned. One more add to cart, one more link to click. And then I would feel reset.

Same for alcohol. One more drink and that will be the one to turn my brain from an overheated engine idling constantly to the calm, compartmentalized place I needed it to be. Scroll, drink, shop, click. Scroll, drink, shop, click. Rage. Cry. Beg for forgiveness. Clean up my mess. Start over.

That was my cycle. I was searching for something, anything to order the disorder in my life, and when I didn’t find it—exhausted from searching, I blew up. And then I would breakdown.