ADHD, Health

From Mother to Son

 

fatlittleboy

This little so-and-so is the reason I Googled ADHD in the first place, that was when he was 3 and as we looked at the diagnostic criteria, my husband said, ‘That’s you that is’.  Well, here I am in the midst of my assessment and we’ve now finally decided to get our lad assessed too.

This is not without stigma in the UK.  Funnily enough, his teacher and the Inclusion Manager at the school were totally calm about it, but it’s the reaction of relatives and friends that needs to be carefully navigated – not easy if you have bloody ADHD yerself!

My son is in a slight danger of aggrandisement via Special Labelling of Neurobiological Disorders, i.e. becoming a cocky arse.  He sent me  this link

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kFHXDRvHbw8

10 signs that apparently show you are a genius – all of which are well documented traits of ADHD (apart from blue eyes).  He sent it to me knowing full well that he fulfills all of them apart from the alcoholic one.  He then pointed to my 6pm very large glass of Shiraz to demonstrate it was only a matter of time before he succumb to the 10th.  That’s exactly why I’m having him referred.  So he doesn’t resort to the 10th.

When we talk about our referrals, relatives go quiet, think, maybe, we’re justifying terrible behavior, or are bewildered because ‘we all have these traits, don’t we?’

Yes, yes we do!  And some people – actually, A LOT of the bravest people in history have had ADHD traits, but it’s only a DIS-order when things go wrong. And for me and, unfortunately for my boy, things are going wrong.

For me – Underachievement in work despite academic success, inability to write book 3 – I’ve now racked up 4 first chapters of different projects.  Hormones don’t help.  Total inability to sort out my house.  I have piles of crap everywhere.  There is evidence of Herculean bursts of energy where I’ve decorated a room, then I can’t finish it, so the piles of paint tins and tools stay in the corner for, er, three years.  Tip of the iceberg.

My son – well.  Homework is torture.  I’ve asked for help for about 5 years from school but he’s always been a good boy there – until year 6.  Now the hormones are kicking in, it seems he’s acting out at school too. I feel his pain –

I recently got all my school reports from my parents’ house and there it was, laid bare – first I read mine and my sister’s which was similar:

  • If only she could apply herself
  • Awful spelling
  • Huge potential but needs to focus
  • If only she could be more self disciplined
  • She needs to  concentrate
  • Her term time marks  are excellent but the exam is not representative of her potential
  • Careless
  • If she actually came to lessons, she might achieve

Then worse, I looked at my mother’s reports – they weren’t so polite in 1953…

One said she was “a nuisance”  and then this:

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“She finds it difficult to take correction”.  And look again at the word “concentrate”.

Hilarious!  Except, sort of not.  I always knew she was different.  She couldn’t cope with cooking – hated it.  She kept draws and draws full of receipts and lists. My sister used to half joke that mum expressed her rage through her food, but actually it was rage plus frustration.  She must have punched the 70s air with the development of microwave technology.  I now see that she was trying her very hardest to impose her own crazy system on things she found really very hard to manage.

crayons

At 7 I was top of the class with the odd comment about finishing on time.  By the time I got to lower 6th doing A-Levels it was ‘we will be astonished if she finishes’, ‘so much potential unrealised’.

Maybe they’d chucked too many bloody board rubbers at my head…

 

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I now have to apologise to all readers who are religious.  Please walk away, because this will be upsetting.  It really will:

I hate church.  And my son hates church.  I, possibly/maybe influenced his first experience of church (Scouts) in a bad way by hyperventilating/fidgeting/texting all the way through that agonising hour.

I can only explain by saying I was forced to go to church by my parents until I refused to go any more.  I was 11.  The reason I gave my parents was because our Minister had it off with our sunday school teacher (with a ginger fro) behind his wife’s back – he had 3 kids.

Once I refused to go at 11 it sort of opened a floodgate of power – I knew I didn’t have to do what they told me.  So our vicar was a morally weak – but that wasn’t the real reason I hated church, that was just the excuse I needed to end the agony.  The real reason?  It was really, really BORING.  Perhaps if my well meaning parents had been more ‘high church’ rather than opting for the plain, un-showy, but tonque-speaking Baptists, it might have been more bearable.  I’d at least have had some pretty gold trinkets, frescos and decent architecture to stare at while I zoned out.

Once I had won this victory, I learned something very useful – I could just refuse to do stuff!  Armed with this brilliant new weapon I stumbled angry and confused into the hormonal hell of adolescence and came right up against the one thing that would obstruct me from total freedom – my dad.  And the conflict that resulted was carnage…

 

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