Cry me a river

I can’t get through most days without shedding a tear. Ever since I was a kid, all my feelings were big and it was clear to me I was much more emotional than the average elementary schooler. No one ever made fun of me for it – at least not to my face – but I knew the swelling in my throat and change in my voice wasn’t a regular occurrence for everyone else.

For some inexplicable reason, I always felt like there was something wrong with me – something that kept me from completely fitting in with everyone else. I watched my actions and the reactions of others closely, studying the differences and making mental notes of the “safe” ways to behave. 

Roughly eight years later, after late nights Googling what was wrong with me and slamming my psychiatrist with questions, I was diagnosed with attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD). There was some relief initially to have a name to put to my symptoms, but it wore off quickly as an aching feeling crept through me: Why had I lived my entire childhood struggling and barely scraping by?

Once, in fifth grade, I had an outburst in the middle of a classroom so quiet you could hear the light hum of the air conditioning and the clock ticking as each second passed by. We had a substitute teacher that day, and she had us doing worksheet after worksheet to keep us occupied so she could scroll on her computer. I had just finished the most recent one when I decided to pull out my book from my bag and crack it open in my spare time. This sort of thing had never been an issue with my actual teacher, as I regularly finished my work faster than most of the class. 

It didn’t take long for her to notice that my pencil was no longer scratching against the sheet, and instead, my eyes were moving left to right between pages. It was as if she realized this was her opportunity to showcase her authority over the classroom. 

“What do you think you’re doing? There is no way you finished already,” she scolded from the front of the classroom, not even bothering to approach me individually. 

“Mr. Blankenship always lets me read when I finish my work. And I finished – do you want to see?” I eventually croaked out through my stuttering. I hated confrontation, especially from those in an authoritative position.

“I don’t need to see it, I know you’re not done. Once you finish, you can start working on the next one,” she coldly replied.

I could feel the warmth crawl up my cheeks, and my vocal cords started to close in on me. I took a deep breath and tried to reel in the incoming emotion as she spoke again.

“What are you doing just sitting there? Get your pencil back out.”

The dam behind my eyes broke, and my paper became encapsulated in wet spots. I tried to breathe again, but I just felt the anger and embarrassment continuing to brew inside me. Before I knew it, I had my worksheet in a crumpled-up ball clenched inside my fist and launched it across my desk. Afraid of retaliation for acting without thinking, I took off toward the nearest bathroom to cry my eyes out. 

When Mr. Blankenship came back the next day, he told me to meet him outside during our silent reading time. He asked what had happened the previous day. Just like yesterday, my eyes began to well. The stoic man who was in his mid-40s didn’t know how to handle the quick onset of my tears and told me it was all right and to go to the bathroom before coming back to class. Nothing was reported to the administration or my parents.

I always got good grades, despite an increased desire to procrastinate as the years went on. I was the middle child. I was always placed in the accelerated courses. I rarely asked for help. I seldom got in trouble, except for the two referrals I received for playing too roughly with boys. I guess they couldn’t fight like a girl.

My mom was recently diagnosed with ADHD as well. When I finally shared the reasons I sought my own, she told me that she felt the same way about things as I but had always prided herself on being unique. She wore her weirdness like a badge of honor. Quite literally sometimes, too, as on any random Wednesday, she could have been spotted donning a replica of the Mad Hatter’s hat. 

I could spend my time wishing she had gotten assistance sooner so that she could have seen it in me, too. But there’s no point. She was struggling just the same as I was but with two other kids and a flight risk of a husband. There are no do-overs, just do-betters, which she’s doing now with my baby brother by regularly meeting with teachers, administrators and school specialists to establish his individualized education program.

We can think that we know best, but we often still have to learn from our mistakes. Part of accepting yourself is forgiving those who non-maliciously aided in you being that way.

Just as I’m figuring things out for myself, she is as well. I can’t blame her too much; it’s her first time living, too, but now we can wipe away each other’s tears.