When I was in 2nd grade, my father drove me to a brick building once a day for 3 days. A lady there would ask me questions. When the three days were up, she handed my parents a large stack of papers. My diagnosis.
I love to read, but sometimes I can only focus on the things behind the book, not the words itself. I can barely keep my room straight for a few days. I get distracted easily, and would switch back and fourth between by computer tabs when I was trying to focus on something. It never felt like anything but a lack of discipline. It never felt like anything more than disorganization. It never felt like ADHD. A teacher said ADHD meant kids who didn’t listen to adults. She was wrong.
My mother says I wouldn’t be nearly as creative as I am if I didn’t have ADHD. I can’t imagine a world where the pen wasn’t as big a part of my life as it is. I love writing, it feels more like something I can’t not do than a hobby. I love to draw, but it never felt like ADHD. It felt like me.
A Sproul