Here’s the truth about ADHD: It sucks. 

I’m not talking about the kind that everyone says they have, laughing “Squirrel!” or texting “So ADD…lol.”

Sure, real ADHD can be funny, but it can also be serious, frustrating, and in some cases, dangerous.

And it can follow you through your entire life.

Like many girls growing up with ADHD, or ADD as we called it then, in the 70s and 80s, I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I didn’t fit the stereotype. The ADHD box was reserved for wild little boys who couldn’t sit still.

I was just a bright-eyed little girl ready to “take on the world,” as my mom would say.

But deep inside I struggled…  with homework, organization, details, relationships, and instructions.

I felt like an idiot early on. By junior high I’d adopted the role of dizzy blond, deciding that scattered was better than stupid. 

But it still took a toll on my self-esteem. I developed self-destructive behaviors, focusing not on how I felt on the inside, but how I looked on the outside. While I could pull off pretty and polished, I couldn’t conjure up confidence or calm.

As I got older, it got worse.

I was always in a hurry, habitually late, and frequently impulsive, totaling two cars in single-vehicle crashes and causing other fender benders along the way. I was in debt, drifted from one job to the next, and began drinking excessively.

When I got my dream job as a TV news reporter, I was flying high, but often showed up late for interviews—without a notepad or pen—and forgot to ask key questions while covering complex stories.

Around the same time, my addiction to alcohol progressed, fueling my internal unraveling. Somehow, I maintained the masquerade. I met and married David, an amazing man who had no idea what he’d signed up for.

Eventually, the drinking took its toll—on both David and me. I hit my alcoholic bottom in 2002 and went to treatment, immersing myself in a 12-Step program that I clung to as tightly as I once did alcohol. By the time I was 40, my life had improved dramatically. David and I had two beautiful girls and I was building a meaningful career in nonprofit fundraising.

I decided it was high time I got tested.

Imagine how validated, even relieved, I felt when the psychologist told me I had ADHD, Inattentive type, and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Suddenly, I was able to piece together a lifetime of baffling behaviors and begin the second leg of my recovery journey.

I started seeing a psychiatrist and, after some trial-and-error (and a few tears), we settled on medications for both conditions. It helped. For years. Then doubt started creeping in.

I felt like I was making more ADHD-related blunders. Maybe the medication wasn’t working anymore, and I had developed the tools needed to beat this on my own.

Besides, everyone says our country is over-medicated, right? Maybe it’s true.

As I slowly went off my meds, I continued practicing other parts of my recovery, sitting quietly, talking–and listening–to God, and committing more quality time to family and friends. I even learned Mahjong and took up bird watching, both surprisingly beneficial to my mental health.

I am also a stickler for my morning walks with my dogs. Those daily jaunts provide me with the alone time I not only relish, but need. (I’m with people all day!) I got this, I told myself.

A week or so in, when the experiment blew up in my face.

One day I drove to work and noticed my daughter’s car key on my passenger seat. “Huh,” I thought. “Why do I have Serina’s key?” 

I had no recollection of grabbing it before I left. 

By the time I met her for lunch three hours later, it was gone. I retraced every step. Nothing.

A few more mishaps and my no-med trial was over. Sure I had typical ADHD blunders while I was on medication, but without it? They doubled. Maybe tripled.

Today, I’m back on my medication. And I’m still trying. Really hard. In many ways, my efforts are paying off.

I serve as Secretary for a board I’m on, and have become a meticulous note-taker. I’ve grown so much in this role. Most of all, I’ve proven that I am capable.

At our July meeting, the board president said, “Karen, I love your minutes. So much detail!” 

I was beaming, but also on the brink of tears, realizing how far I’d come.

You see, ADHD isn’t all-or-nothing. And neither am I.

An old friend also struggled with ADHD. As she neared retirement, she dedicated herself to meditation and mindfulness. In the process, she seemed increasingly concerned, not so much with her ADD, but with mine. 

That was the beginning of the end of a yearslong friendship. 

Recently, she spotted me on a walk. I was on my phone, in the street, and apparently oblivious, forcing her to drive around me as I meandered down that side street (with a 25 mph speed limit, on a Saturday afternoon).

The next day, she sent me a long Facebook message telling me how mindful she had become over the past two years and how she wished I “would do the same.” My behaviors, which she’d witnessed multiple times, terrified her and were dangerous so she needed to “point that out.”

As she signed off, she told me not to reply. Twice. 

I was furious. 

After all, she dropped into my inbox uninvited, shared her perspective, then shut the door on mine. Her words, like dull knives, reopened old wounds, namely shame and inadequacy.

Maybe she was genuinely concerned. If I look past the tone, I can see her point.

Or maybe I reminded her of a version of herself she no longer wanted to see.

Or maybe it’s a little bit of both.

Either way, my anger softened.

Initially, being told that my behavior demonstrated a general lack of mindfulness hit a nerve. Any good intentions were overshadowed by assumptions and an unsolicited assessment of my own mental health.

I’d been judged by someone who cut me out of her life and today sees only snippets of mine.

Truth is, I can be out walking, looking at my phone, belting out Elton John, talking to my sister, or simply listening to the birds around me… and be aware of my surroundings.

No one is privy to what is going on in my head, regardless of appearances. On my walks, in my home, or on the job. My recovery and mental health are as unique as I am.

My ADHD can still be off the charts, but I can also settle into moments of deep reflection. 

I can lose my keys (or my daughter’s) and feel like I’m losing my mind.

Then I can get on my knees and pray for relief as the God of my understanding soothes my soul and restores me to sanity.

I’ve experienced what I call ADD blackouts, when I drift, mentally, and don’t remember sections of a book I’m reading or how I got sucked into a deeply divisive IG post. It happened in 10th grade geometry class and it can happen while walking down a quiet North Alabama street on a sweltering summer afternoon.

That’s when ADD becomes unsettling. And frightening.

But it doesn’t define me, even though I struggle with it. Constantly. Even today, in my fifties.

There’s more to me than distraction and winding conversations. I am creative, passionate, dedicated, and have an enormous ability to feel joy and pain. My own and others’.

I am so much more than my ADD, my anxiety, and my alcoholism.

We all have our stuff.

No matter what we suffer from, or to what degree, I pray that we can wrap our arms around each other and lift each other up.

Maybe then we can maximize our collective mental, physical, and spiritual healing, no matter what ails us.

And maybe then ADHD–and other things that suck–won’t suck quite as much.