By: Nichelle N. Cook
“Everything I hated most about myself was connected to a disorder I didn’t know I had. Interestingly enough, everything I have since come to love about my calling has been intrinsically linked to the same.” – Nichelle C.
All my life I possessed somewhat of an innate understanding that my brain operated under a different set of rules. Sometimes it’s efforts would yield amazing dividends while at other times repetitive losses. Sometimes it worked for hours on end at maximum capacity. Other times, it simply whispered try again tomorrow. Nonetheless, I loved it just the same, because it was mine. The only one I’d ever have, and quite honestly, the only one I’ve ever wanted. Besides, even if I’d hated it, it would have had to remain my little secret since when it did show up and show out the wins were so big that even the mention of its losses would fall upon deaf ears.
As a church kid, I’d often hear my pastor emphasize the disciple Mark’s recitation of Jesus’ commandment to love others as we love ourselves. Though it seemed simple enough, my attempts to do so eventually revealed a chilling truth… although I'd learned to love my brain, I didn’t love the person I was becoming at all; not necessarily because of who I was but because of who I didn't feel I had the strength to be. In fact, I abhorred myself and wished above all else that one day I’d finally achieve normalcy, since the thought of reaching my actual potential seemed completely out of reach. Though I had no idea what either felt like or if either actually existed, an aspiration toward the more achievable feat of normalcy was enough to yield some glimmer of hope. As I sought to express myself in various spaces (both religious and secular), I’d often be reminded of my blessings, my successes and all the reasons why I should simply be grateful. The more I tried, the more it backfired. The more it backfired, the more I lost faith. The more I lost faith, the more I questioned the point of even my simplest efforts.
After a while I began to believe that it didn’t make sense to talk about it. Besides, who would believe it anyway? Instead, I’d simply appear to be “looking for attention.” I’d accomplished so many impressive feats that any attempts to candidly reveal my struggles with forgetfulness, anxiety-induced task avoidance and/or the inability to concentrate would predictably be met with, “What! Not you?” That being said, silence seemed to be the much lesser evil. So, I taught myself to be silent… completely silent.
Silent about my dreams…
because I feared that I didn’t have the concentration to actually pull them off.
Silent about my abstract ideas…
because I figured they’d not make sense to anyone but me.
Silent about my depression…
because life’s blessings had proven those feelings to be invalid.
Silent about my hopes of a family of my own…
because I feared it might remain just that, a hope unfulfilled.
Then the day came when I decided I’d silence myself forever. In my mind, I’d envisioned the perfect plan and, in some respects, made peace with it. Yet still I mourned inwardly at the realization that to carry out such an act would be to forfeit my vision of one day unlocking my brain and discovering the keys to help others do the same. That vision had been the resounding theme of my entire career and the recurring daydream that catapulted me to the imaginative moon without fail, even if only for a moment. It had repeatedly been confirmed in my prayers as the reason for my existence. It was the proverbial thorn in my side that kept me humble. It was the task that, if I could wield the discipline to master, assuredly had the power to transform the world (or at the very least my world as I had come to know it). So, moments before I could bring myself to finally end it all, I cried out to God with all my might and he answered with an inexplicable peace that brought me to tears and affirmed that if I could hold on a while longer, it would all make sense. Afterward, with all the strength I could muster, I immediately reached out for help. Now, years later, I find myself blissfully (and still sometimes anxiously) living my long-awaited daydream as reality; standing at the brink of everything I ever wanted and never thought I’d actually have the focus to attain.
I’m here with an ADHD diagnosis that makes sense of my idiosyncrasies.
I’m here with an ADHD diagnosis that categorically describes my weaknesses in a manner that empowers me to address them.
I’m here with an ADHD diagnosis that summons me to maximize its strengths instead of undermining the idea that my out-the-box creativity, impulsive candor and uncanny wit might actually be as brilliant as folks say.
If you’ve made it to the end of my story and at least a portion of it resonates with you, I hope that you’re inspired to keep hope alive. I hope that you find the strength to seek professional help for mental concerns just as one would for physical ones. I hope that you come to know that although all feelings are valid, they aren’t always trustworthy. And lastly, I hope you come to truly embrace the reality that no matter how dark it seems, all the pieces of life’s intricate jigsaw puzzle have a way of presenting and assembling themselves just as they should if you just keep the faith.
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