Seeing Them Differently
How learning more about myself changed the story I tell about my past.
I was halfway through replying to a comment in an ADHD group on Facebook when I thought about my mom.
She’s seventy-nine now. Strong, funny, and stubborn (I may or may not have a bit of that myself).
When I was a kid, my mom was always tired. So tired it confused me. That memory showed up before I could finish typing, and I realized the comment wasn’t really what had stopped me.
I remember worrying about her. It seemed like she was always so tired she could barely keep her eyes open. When she got home from work, she’d lay down on the couch and fall asleep until dinner, and then again after, right up until bedtime.
Before I go on, I want to be clear. My mom worked her ass off. Sometimes two jobs. Raising us on her own. She was the furthest thing from someone who just “gave up” at the end of the day. She was spent, and she had every right to be.
What’s interesting is the same exact thing happened to me when my two daughters were young. The minute I would pick them up from their mom’s, I’d get hit with this wave of exhaustion so strong it made no sense.
Two little girls in the back seat and me fighting to keep my eyes open like I was driving through fog.
It was the kind of tired where my whole body wanted to go limp. I’d sit up straight, grip the wheel, crack a window. Anything to stay upright.
It came with guilt first. Then confusion.
“Because what kind of dad feels exhausted the minute he’s finally with his kids?
I didn’t have an explanation. Could it be that we both had some kind of hereditary sleeping condition?
For me, getting diagnosed took some pressure off. It explained something I’d carried for years. When my girls were little, the exhaustion would hit me hard and fast, and I hated it.
But back then ADHD didn’t look like that. ADHD meant hyperactive. So I ruled it out and kept searching for some other explanation.
“Now I think I finally have the right one. For someone with ADHD, too much noise, conversation, or movement, can lead to sensory overload. My brain couldn’t juggle all of it, so it started shutting down.”
When I told my mom about my diagnosis last year and started sharing some of what I was learning, she confessed that she’d been wondering if she might have it too.
When she said that, I remember thinking about her asleep on that couch. Me worrying and not understanding. And suddenly it didn’t feel like a mystery anymore. It all made sense.
Honestly, it can be a lot when we’re together. We distract each other. I bounce topics and talk a mile a minute, and sometimes she has a hard time following me. I used to take that personally.
Now I think it’s just how our brains are when they’re in the same room.
I don’t know for certain if my mom has ADHD. What I do know is that we were both doing the best we could.
We were dealing with the same wiring, and it made it harder for us to be fully present sometimes.
Knowing that changes the way I remember her, and the way I judge myself.
-R. Michael
Before you go
This one is really about the clarity that can come when you learn more about yourself.
Sometimes what you’ve been calling a flaw, or a mistake, was your body doing its best to protect you and get you through.
It reminds me that our realities and how we interpret things can be different from one another, even within your own family. That one detail can change how you remember the past, and how much grace you give yourself and others.
If you feel inclined to share, what’s something you understand about yourself now that makes an old memory feel different?
I had the same experience; constant exhaustion when my kids were young. Of course, a job and kids alone can do that to anyone. But this was extreme. For a time, I slept for hours as soon as I got home, just like your mom. When I forced myself to stay awake, which was usually, exhaustion made me impatient and distant. I felt like a terrible mother, carried constant guilt around about it. Since the ADHD diagnosis, I’ve grieved over what my kids and I missed during those years. But, like you said, at least I know why. When the grief wells up, I also call up self-compassion for the woman I was during that time. I know I was giving it everything I possibly could.
I now realize disability is not being a lazy arse that never tries hard enough, and is a big baby, on purpose. Of course we never think that about other disabled people. Just ourselves. Somehow it never clicks that disability is genuine disability, not just when other people have it, but also when it's ours.