I didn’t get an official ADHD diagnosis until my thirties, though apparently, I was showing signs as early as age four. But hey, it was the 1970s—a time when Ritalin prescriptions were practically a fashion statement—and my mom, with her nursing background, wasn’t buying it. Fast forward to now, and I often wonder what she’d say about it. She passed in 2003, and I wasn’t diagnosed until 2008. Oh, and fun fact: that’s also the year I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. Coincidence? I ponder that too.
Looking back, I see my struggles with depression, anxiety, and those late-night brain marathons. Sure, I could focus on cooking, gaming, reading, or drawing, but completing tasks? Not my forte. Laundry sat unfolded, toys staged a house-wide rebellion, dishes formed a sink army, and vacuuming? Forget it. Then there were the rare "superhuman" days when I transformed into an organizational ninja—meals prepped, laundry done, kids bathed. But chaos always returned. Criticism and ridicule followed, and I coped by eating. A lot. At over 250 pounds, I felt ashamed, even as my mom would say, “Such a pretty face, though.”
Recently, my family endured a nightmare I never imagined: homelessness. I even vlogged about it (@beautifullyadhd on NewsBreak). Some people supported me; others gave the classic “stop being lazy” nonsense. The saga began in April 2023 when we left Massachusetts for Connecticut. Our landlord couldn’t renew our lease due to the building’s conditions, and rental prices were insane. Thankfully, my grandsons’ mom and her grandparents offered us temporary shelter. My daughter and the kids moved first, and I stayed behind to pack up and quit my job at Family Dollar. By March 31, 2023, my fiancé and I arrived in Connecticut, ready for a full house of family. What could go wrong, right? To be continued…