“Why can’t you pay attention?”
By Felix Pocius
As the ever-long white noise of pens clicking and clocks ticking droned on, I turned my attention to the front of the classroom. I saw the bright red markings on the whiteboard reading ‘Pythagorean Theorem,’ noting an eerie, albeit indirect resemblance to ‘Redrum’ from The Shining. Thus, began my internal monologue:
“Pythagorean theorem states that the area of a square whose side is the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the areas of the squares on the other two sides. Pythagoras. Damn, that’s a dope name. How come names from ancient societies are so much cooler than our names now? Like, why name your kid ‘James’ when you could name him ‘Agamemnon’? I wonder what my name would’ve been if I was born in ancient Greece or Rome. I think Felix is already an ancient Roman name. Or is it German? I know it means happy in Latin. Or does it mean lucky? I know it’s one of the two. Although you would be quite happy if you were lucky, so I guess it kind of means the same thing?”
“Felix, are you paying attention?”
I wasn’t. In all honesty, I very rarely was.
This year, as a 21-year-old man, I was diagnosed with A.D.H.D. Like the allegorical prisoner escaping Plato’s Cave, my concept of normalcy had completely shifted, without the possibility of a return. In a moment of bittersweet closure, I had finally found the root cause behind some of my deepest insecurities and richest character traits. With the benefit of hindsight and medication, a vivid picture of a boy unknowingly trapped in ever-present turbulence began to emerge.
I grew up in a family of talkers and sought companionship in the shy. Yelling, dominating the conversation, constantly spouting whatever nonsense was on my mind, these were all ‘part of my charm,’ according to my friends. Conversation came quite naturally to me, mainly because I would either get too bored or stop listening to the other person. It’s very easy to keep a conversation going when you have already moved onto the next topic five minutes prior. Fortunately for me, the shortcomings of A.D.H.D. that usually hinder one’s social skills were embraced by my friends as a part of my personality. They weren’t surprised when I told them about my diagnosis.
My love of conversation didn’t translate well in a classroom setting, to say the least. I consider myself lucky to have had so many understanding teachers in my life. When a teacher tells you they know you can do better, it’s reassuring; when six teachers tell you they know you can do better, it’s quite worrying. By the end of the school year, every post-class ‘you can do better’ conversation with my teachers started to feel like Good Will Hunting. My schooling can be summed up in a quote from one of my favourite teachers: “This is great work, Felix; imagine how much better it could have been if it wasn’t done the night before the due date.”
Typically, those who suffer from A.D.H.D. will inhibit a feeling of non-conformity throughout their adolescence. A feeling which comes in many forms: anxiety, depression, identity issues, defiance of authority, impulsiveness, disorganization, and lack of motivation, to name a few. I brushed off any thoughts that there might be something wrong with me under the guise of ‘just being a weirdo.’ I’ve embraced the nomenclature ‘weirdo;’ to be labelled weird is to be labelled unique. Society is drawn to the strange like a moth to the flame, and culture is a never-ending parade of eclecticism. Unfortunately, many do not share my appreciation for the label.
It is very common for a neurodiverse person to believe that society is constantly analysing them in the same way that they analyse themselves. Interacting with the general public can become quite frightening, as you’re constantly thinking about the aspects of yourself that you believe to be the most noticeable. For example, my fashion sense is…questionable, to say the least. Two years ago, when I would leave my house in a band T-shirt, a pair of jeans twice my size – with not a belt in sight, might I add – and Converses caked in dried mud and beer, all I could think about was how noticeably bad I was dressed. Post-medication however, I’m stepping out of the house in Ugg boots, track pants, a trout-fishing beanie and my woefully stained 2017 Guilford Young College leavers hoodie, completely unphased by the countless fashion faux pas’ that I’m committing. The reality is, no one other than myself ever cared about what I was wearing.
Therein lies the danger of living with undiagnosed A.D.H.D. as a young adult. For years, you create a false idea of reality and the self that is being unknowingly impaired. You feel that all the uncertainty plaguing your existence is normal; you’re just not strong enough to explain or challenge it. You start to question yourself. You know you can do better; you know you’re smarter than this, so where are the results? What are your hopes and dreams for the future? What’s your passion? What do you enjoy doing? Why can’t you pay attention? Why do you feel like this? What’s causing you to be this way?
…Are you the problem?
It’s been 6 months since my diagnosis. I take dextroamphetamine three times a day, twice in the morning, once in the afternoon. Deadlines, directions, memory, my biggest obstacles slowly thwarted. Ironically, the fact that my life has improved so much leaves me with niggling feelings of guilt and regret. I can’t help but think about the quietly suffering boy sauntering through life without any knowledge of his reality. I think about how he might have avoided ruining his romantic relationships and hurting the people he cared about. I think about the two years he spent choosing a degree. I think about the countless activities he’d lost interest in without an explanation. It’s hard not to. Nevertheless, I’m excited for him because I know what he has to look forward to. The clouds will part; the anxiety will fade, and for the first time in his life, he will feel like he’s on the right path. The boy has no idea that he will soon be diagnosed with A.D.H.D.
And it’ll be the best thing to ever happen to him