Starting with who my friends really were.
I woke up, both physically and metaphorically, one morning (tbh, it could have been noon) a few years ago. Suddenly I knew exactly what was wrong with me. Having suffered from depression since childhood and diagnosed as a teen, then adding generalized anxiety disorder to the mix after having a baby, there was only one possible explanation for my declining—or at least never-improving—mental health. At 38, I came to the conclusion that I must be bipolar.
I ticked the box for the disorder’s low moods, and believed that my version of the infamous manic episodes were the times I wouldn’t sleep for weeks on end while working on a particular project. There could be no other explanation.
So I went to the doctor, announced that I must have bipolar disorder, and got the ball rolling for a diagnostic assessment. After almost a year of sessions with a psychiatrist, there was good news and bad news: I wasn’t bipolar, but it was highly likely that I had adult attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD).
You know, the trend that’s all over social media? The one that everyone all of a sudden has? The one that up until recently we all thought was what they called naughty kids, particularly boys, who couldn’t sit still (so, all of them)? The one that boatloads of perimenopausal women are now getting diagnosed with? Yeah, that. After two years (the waiting list for adult ADHD in the UK is much longer than the one for children, unless you go private), I was diagnosed. And that’s when it all really started to make sense.
As part of the diagnostic process, the clinicians had to speak to someone who knew me as a child, so I put my mother forward as the appropriate contact. They asked her a series of questions: How was your daughter as a child? Did she start projects and never finish them? What about her time-keeping skills? Her moods? Her hygiene? Mum told them that I was always a very good child. Didn’t make much noise or cause any trouble. Liked to stay in my room a lot.
She proudly relayed that I once stayed up all night and redecorated my bedroom—including stripping the wallpaper, sanding the walls, and painting them—on my own at 14. My mum raved about how capable I was when I put my mind to something. She also mentioned that I would get up just five minutes before school started, despite her trying to wake me up for hours beforehand, and run to catch up with her and my sister, shirt hanging out, teeth unbrushed.
The official adulthood diagnosis revealed a lot. It explained why I would feel inundated with the task of having to put the laundry away and inevitably leave it for weeks, but could bash out an in-depth 3,000-word article on the technological advancements of hydrogen-powered fuel-cell trains in a few hours. By learning more about ADHD’s executive functioning deficits combined with extreme emotional sensitivity and toxic empathy, I could account for the lack of personal self-care while simultaneously pampering and catering to every single one of my daughter’s needs ever since she exited my body.
I now know that my brain isn’t like other people’s; it never switches off. But not like the brain of a mother… it’s in addition to that brain. It’s like you have two minds, both of which are always on, thanks to yet another ADHD symptom, ceaseless mental activity. Oh, and these two brains also hate each other.
The ADHD brain is doing its thing, while the other brain is saying, “Be cool, dude!” Studies comparing ADHD and non-ADHD people have shown that ADHD brains are different in shape, size, and structure. MRI scans have shown that the frontoparietal network is less coordinated, leading to difficulties maintaining focus and attention. In addition, ADHD people have dysregulated dopamine and norepinephrine neurotransmitters. As well as executive dysfunction, these factors affect impulse control, and working memory. We’re simply wired differently.
The diagnosis explained why I’m psychotically calm and blasé in stressful situations (while internally melting down), but enter fully-fledged freeze mode when I have to make a telephone call or unload the dishwasher. Why when I watch or read anything remotely academic (even though I have a couple of degrees), I feel like I’ve been given information in a different language. I always wondered why certain concepts seemed to be completely comprehensible to everyone else except me: We simply zone out mid-explanation/instruction.
But the most important epiphany, and (almost) relief was the understanding of my complex human relationships over the years. I always wondered why I either talked too much and overshared or stayed entirely silent—there was no in between. Why my jokes would sometimes get taken seriously or cause people to be angry with me. Why I would blurt out what was on my mind, sometimes inappropriately, in front of people I thought were good friends, only to find that it was—or I was—too much for even them. I thought it strange that I was more successful than some of my friends, yet I was the one they would make fun of for never being able to remember where I parked my car, or retain instructions and/or directions. How was I the dumb (dyed) blonde of the group?
I would get ridiculously excited over other people’s achievements, though that excitement was rarely reciprocated. Once, when a colleague finally got her degree after a 10-year effort, I got up on my desk, ripped up some documents, and threw them in the air like confetti. She appreciated my enthusiasm, but admitted that she found it weird that I was so happy for someone else.
It was clear that I didn’t fit into anyone’s idea of how someone should be or how they should behave. But I was always the first person they’d call when they needed something, and true to form, I would always show up. Whether it be food, money, a place to stay, a drinking buddy, or bar brawl backup, I was the one. I felt wanted in those moments, but most of all I really wanted to be there for people in their hour of need. And I was.
I’d drive an hour to the airport to see a friend for 30 minutes during their layover, but can count on one hand the times anyone has ever done the same or similar for me. I would show my love for people, then get knocked down for doing too much, feeling too much, and expressing too much. It was really befuddling to have everyone seemingly love me when I was drunk, then ask what was wrong with me the next day when I wasn’t dancing on bars and downing two shots at a time, hands-free. I would wonder why I started getting overlooked and excluded, but mainly I wondered why it was so easy for people to abase me. It was clear that I was different from everyone else, and I received different treatment, but I didn’t know why or what to do about it.
It might be helpful if I provided some examples of my supposedly offensive behavior. In my early 20s, I started hanging out with a group of girls (a couple of whom I’m still in touch with—I’m even godmother to one of their kids), and we had a great summer. Over coffee one morning, I said in half-jest that I was going to get a tattoo with all of our initials. I already had about 20 tattoos at this point (I’ve lost count of how many I have now) so to me it was no big deal. I’m always up for a laugh, and am nothing if not spontaneous. “Fear of commitment” is not in my dictionary, but “impulsive” is. Anyway, someone—remarkably, the person I’d known the longest—slammed me and the idea as immature. My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach and I don’t think I spoke for the remainder of the outing.
Once, at a party, when spotting that my friend’s ex-boyfriend was the DJ, without thinking I said, “Is that your ex?” She was incensed and gave me an earful on the phone the next day. Apparently, she had been flirting with a guy and I sabotaged it. I had no recollection of any such man (sorry to this man). My friend had been with her ex for a whole decade so I didn’t think it was news to anyone in our friend group, but I profusely apologized. I then proceeded to beat myself up for not being able to control the things that came out of my mouth. I still sometimes think about it and resume the flogging.
Another time on a snowboarding trip with friends, an engaged couple, I responded to the guy’s comment about how well he could cook by saying, “Marry me.” Inappropriate. I know. I wished I could pull the words back into my mouth like a cartoon, or fly around the world like Superman to turn back time, but alas. I was joking and thought it was obvious. Apparently not.
Yet another time at a dinner, someone asked for book recommendations and… Well, let’s just say I stopped myself once I realized no one was interested in my lecture on how Vonnegut and Hemingway were practically the same writer but from different parts of town. While most people wouldn’t want to seem judgy by expressing their disdain for a friend’s interests, choices, and even relationships (at least not to their face), I was somehow fair game.
A friend once complained that her boyfriend threatened to go back on their agreement to move abroad once she had already settled into her life-long dream career. I said that if he did cancel the plans, then he wasn’t the one for her. I was met with a loud, “Oh, shut up, Kat!” I guess the “normal” thing to do would have been to tell her that everything would be fine, but my ADHD injustice radar was going off and I was unable to.
I have often thought (and overthought) about all these occasions. While it’s always demoralizing being shouted at or looked down on by someone you love, it hurts more to know that they wouldn’t speak to most other people like that. It goes beyond simply having the wrong people around—it’s happened far too many times to just be a coincidence.
I have always assumed that if someone was mean to me, it was my fault. I have always been an easy target, and it’s taken me four decades and a legit ADHD diagnosis to understand why. I’m too nice. Yes, I am aware now that those people were bad friends, but the point is that they knew that even if they disrespected me, I would stick around. Why? Because of people pleasing and rejection sensitivity disorder (RSD), of course—two more perks to add to the ADHD symptom list.
ADHD has been linked to RSD because an ADHD brain cannot regulate emotions and behaviors caused by rejection, meaning they are much more intense. Fear of rejection then leads to hyperbolic people pleasing.
To most people who know me now, these friendship revelations might come as a surprise. But if you keep everyone you’ve met without sifting out the weeds for fear of upsetting anyone, you will end up, like me, amassing a lot of fair-weather acquaintances by the time you’re in your 40s. ADHD folk, like myself, tend to have many so-called friends, but not a lot of meaningful relationships. After all, no one can really get to know you, the real you, when you’re an expert at masking (making a diligent effort to hide symptoms, control impulses, practicing what to say, and generally act in a socially acceptable manner in a bid to fit in). The few times the mask dropped (which usually involved alcohol) I was made out to be a fool—and certainly felt like one. Why, then, would I ever want to show my real self to anyone?
I’m greatly accomplished in the art of pretending not to be bothered by the side-eyes and snarky remarks regarding my forgetfulness. But the joke’s on them. I see their sporadic “funny” story recollections about me—such as the time my intrusive thoughts won and I touched a canvas at a museum and was nearly arrested—and raise them an I-think-about-them-every-single-day.
For every time they felt I was annoying, I’d already beat them to it. Any bad thing they could possibly think about me, I’ve already thought it. Trying to beat me down? Babe, I’ve already done the brunt of the work for you; trust me, there’s nowhere lower to go. The self-hate that comes part and parcel of ADHD—especially if you don’t know you have it—is very real.
The ADHD social media accounts and countless videos and memes that I’ve related to since they first gained momentum didn’t make me feel any better, at first. Yes, we hate the big light, always have three or more drinks on the desk, and if you interrupt us in the middle of work, that’s it for the rest of the day. Sure, I find them hilarious but that doesn’t counteract how burdensome and draining living with ADHD is.
Plus, the “so-everyone-has-ADHD-now” crowd kept reminding me of the people I’d come across who refused to accept, understand, or even educate themselves on the topic (I’ve been a writer for two decades; you’d think I’d be troll-proof by now). I get it; a lot of people can relate to many of the ADHD symptom skits. Everyone is sometimes late, demotivated, overly emotional, fidgety, impatient, impulsive, foggy-brained, and talkative, but the key word here is “sometimes.”
I sometimes have headaches, but that doesn’t mean I have a brain tumor. My joints are sometimes sore, but I don’t have rheumatoid arthritis. ADHD people live with these things, and many more, all day, every day. And it’s, quite frankly, debilitating.
But I’d like to say a big thank you to the people who have taken time to spread awareness of the issue (like ADHD-Love’s Rox and Rich), who focus on how to find acceptance as someone with ADHD and learn to live without shame. Since I’ve hated myself and had monstrous feelings of shame and guilt for as long as I can remember, their content speaks to me. It’s taught me useful coping mechanisms, like body-doubling and setting timers (among many others), and provided family members and true friends who want to understand and learn more with an accessible way to do so.
It took being diagnosed to realize that my people-pleasing meant that I wasn’t calling people out on their bad treatment of me and was allowing them the privilege of still having me in their lives.
When the friend-sifting began a couple of years ago, boy, let me tell you… the catharsis was refreshing. ADHDers go big or go home. We do everything on steroids. We love, care, obsess, and party hard. Real hard. We’re too much for most people, and I’ve finally had enough of trying to make myself “less” to fit into judgmental societal ideologies. Now, at 42, and officially neurospicy, with solid proof that I am not troublesome, inappropriate, or hard to love, I’ve decided that this is me, all ADHD of me. Take it or leave it. And, as our collective BFF Meghan Trainor says, “Put an X by my name if you don’t like me.”
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By Kat de Naoum
Kat de Naoum is a writer based in the UK. She has contributed to many publications including InStyle, Real Simple, Shape, Mother & Baby, Parents, Woman’s World, Bust, and The Debrief. She is also working on several book projects, which she is hoping to actually finish when her next ADHD hyperfocus session kicks in. Her tweenhood obsession with Color Me Badd has (secretly) accompanied her into her 40s, and she still knows (and regularly belts) all the words to the C.M.B. album.