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I started writing this story, fueled by the latest opinions online from various “celebrities” constantly invited to more or less relevant podcasts. This will be a slightly longer post—I hope you have the patience to read it. If not, just ask ChatGPT to summarize it for you. #adhdlife
Lately, I’ve been hearing more and more often: “All kids have ADHD now, back in my day it didn’t exist.” In a way, these people are right—in their ignorance. Yes, ADHD didn’t “exist” in Romania, in their post-communist bubble, sprinkled with Ponzi schemes where they lost everything they had. But in reality, it did exist—whatever form they gave it or whatever name they called it.
My childhood had its good and bad parts. During kindergarten, I don’t remember having any difficulties. From what my mother told me: “You were very well-behaved, you just played alone here, under the balcony.”
That “you played alone here” would, years later, bring a bit of clarity. But let’s take it step by step.
My problems started in primary school. I had a teacher—a very kind lady, but with little patience and probably in her final years of teaching, already tired of all the children she had dealt with over time. I wasn’t the most well-behaved kid, but I wasn’t the worst either. The thing is, I wasn’t doing anything bad—I wasn’t breaking blackboards or windows—this wasn’t about malicious behavior caused by lack of education.
My “bad behavior” was described as: “He’s too nervous in class,” “He can’t sit still,” “If you punish him, he has outbursts,” “He talks nonstop,” “He disrupts the lessons.” Yes, I was disrupting classes.
I tried as hard as I could to be quiet, to pay attention, but I couldn’t. There were very few subjects where I could stay 100% focused. This showed that the problem wasn’t the teacher, but me—in full.
This attention issue never affected my grades. I was actually a good student. In reality, I wasn’t really studying—I would still manage to retain what the teacher was explaining even without being fully attentive, and I had no issues with homework or tests.
Everyone thought it was just an adjustment period; the transition from kindergarten to school can sometimes be difficult. But as the situation didn’t improve, my mother started looking for answers to all these questions.
Somewhere around 3rd or 4th grade—I’m sorry, I don’t remember the exact year—it was probably around 2000–2001—my parents decided to take me to the doctor. They felt the adjustment period had passed and it was time to take action. I was scheduled for a series of evaluations: psychological, psychiatric, and other specialist checkups.
I vaguely remember that period—probably I tried to forget it. I just wanted to find out whether I was sick or not. At that time, these kinds of evaluations were associated with people who had very serious problems, who needed special attention. Very special attention.
Everyone’s reaction was negative. But here also comes, and continues to show, the lack of education. Going to a psychologist doesn’t mean you’re crazy. Neither does going to a psychiatrist. There are conditions that can only be treated this way.
After a long series of tests and investigations, the answer came, vague: “We can’t give a clear diagnosis, but we’ll prescribe treatment” — something like “we don’t know what it is, but put some ointment on it.” It doesn’t matter that your throat hurts, just put ointment on your knee.
But that wasn’t the main issue. The problem was the treatment. The prescribed treatment was a daily dose of Diazepam. If you want to know what that is, you can read here. In those years, it was difficult to question a doctor’s decision or try to find another one; finding a different doctor was practically impossible, everything being centralized in state hospitals. And I don’t want to blame anyone here, especially my parents—they just wanted me to be well, just as I did.
I remember the beginning of the treatment perfectly: I had a higher dose in the first days, something like 1 per day, and after a week I had to reduce it by half. In that first week, I was like a clay figure, like a zombie, constantly sleepy; I had no energy to do anything.
Did it help? No, it didn’t. From the child who “disrupted class,” I became the inattentive child, unable to focus. The situation seemed worse than before. As a child, I didn’t realize any of this—I was just “sleepy from the treatment.”
After a month of this “miracle” treatment, I decided to stop and try, without medication, to stay focused. Did it work? To some extent, yes… but as I grew older, the “restlessness increased.” Sometimes it felt harder than ever to focus on a subject I didn’t consider relevant, even though they all were important.
In the end, I managed to adapt somewhat, but now it’s easier; everything has evolved in this regard—studies, information, experience. And even though I didn’t emphasize it earlier, I still have ADHD.
The information received earlier only created uncertainty regarding my condition. For a while, I tried to ignore it, and I succeeded. I thought it was perfectly normal not to be attentive in a conversation with someone, to be on your phone, to look at the sky, or do anything else rather than listen and not interrupt the person.
It can be disturbing, and people think it’s disrespect. But it’s not always like that.
I still struggle with this issue, and that’s why I hate it when random people give their opinions on something that, first of all, doesn’t directly concern them, and they also have no studies or qualifications in the field.
Aunt Flo knows everything about COVID and ADHD. Parents are to blame, they just don’t know how to raise their kids. Back in my day it was different. Kids were afraid. I knew fear too—I got beaten often enough, even by teachers.
What the hell were you supposed to do.
