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💊 When the Lightbulb Finally Turned On: My ADHD, My Meds, and the Misunderstandings That Still Sting

SimpleSouthernMommy

After I published my first post—Three Trips and a Lightbulb Moment—I thought the flood of memories might slow down.

They didn’t.

In fact, they cracked wide open.
Because once I started seeing myself clearly, there was no stuffing it all back down.

💊 Starting, Stopping, and Starting Again

I was first put on ADHD medication in 4th grade, and I stayed on it through college.

Then came adulthood—and with it, impossible systems.
Refills were harder. Appointments trickier. Stigma louder.

So I stopped.

And for a while, I managed. I got married, had babies, held it all together the best I could.

Until I couldn’t.

🌫 The Fog I Didn’t Know I Was In

After Small Fry weaned, I restarted meds.

It was like someone turned the lights on in a room I didn’t know I was living in the dark.

I could finally:

  • Finish a task without switching tabs in my brain.
  • Clean the kitchen and remember why I walked in.
  • Respond to chaos without feeling like I was unraveling inside.

I remember thinking,

“Oh. This is how other people feel every day?”

⚠️ Then Came the Headaches

Two weeks in, I had three migraines in five days.

The stimulant wasn’t a good fit for my body.

We tried a few other options and eventually landed on Strattera.

I knew it was the one when Small Fry dumped an entire bag of flour across the hallway and into his room…

And I didn’t yell.
Didn’t freeze.
Didn’t cry.

I just… cleaned it up.

Calm. Present. Functional.

That had never happened before.

💥 The Setback That Shook Me

Around Mother’s Day 2017, I had a sudden gallbladder attack.

At first, we thought the medication might be to blame.

So I stopped it.

We tried switching again, but nothing else worked the same.
Eventually, I went back to Strattera—because it didn’t just help my focus, it helped my anxiety too.

I stayed on it for years—until 2022, when life got hard again.
Really hard.

Like many moms, I put myself last.
And my brain? It went right back to survival mode.

🛒 The Walmart Message

It was February 2023 when I realized something had to give.

I was standing in Walmart.
Foggy. Tired. Scattered. Spent.

And I knew if I didn’t message my GP right then and there, I’d forget again.

So I did. Right in the aisle, between groceries and brain fog.

We restarted. Adjusted the dose—especially after my RNY surgery. My stomach couldn’t handle the full dose at once.

But we figured it out.

Because I need this medication.
Not to feel “superhuman.”
Just to function like other people already do.

🧠 The Truth About ADHD in Adulthood

The world still treats ADHD like something we outgrow.
But I haven’t outgrown anything.

I’ve just gotten better at pretending—until I can’t anymore.

I know what it’s like to:

  • Spiral in silence.
  • Forget a load of laundry five times in one day.
  • Lose the words in the middle of a sentence.
  • Feel guilt for things you can’t control.

And I’m done living under that shame.

I know what my brain needs now.
And I’m not apologizing for it anymore.

🏫 Homeschooling Was Never the Plan—Until It Was

I swore we’d never homeschool.
Said I didn’t have the patience.

But after COVID, I saw the writing on the wall.

I saw the push to isolate desks, to enforce silence, to box in every behavior—and call it support.

I saw Big Mac being nudged toward the same cracks I fell through.

And I said no.

Just for a year.
That was the plan.

But one year turned into more.
Because for the first time, we were building a system that worked for them, not against them.

💬 What I Know Now

ADHD wasn’t something I outgrew.
It’s something I finally understand.

This journey taught me:

  • Medication is not weakness—it’s access to my own mind.
  • Support isn’t always found in systems—it’s built in small, sacred spaces.
  • The stories we’ve buried hold the key to healing.

Last week, I shared these stories with my therapist.
I told her I hated journaling. She smiled and said:

“You’re doing it now—just in your way.”

She’s right.

This isn’t just a blog.
It’s my story—finally told.
Unmasked. Unapologetic.
And maybe, finally, understood.

Neurodiversity & Parenting

🧠 Three Trips and a Lightbulb Moment

SimpleSouthernMommy

Last night, I needed my phone charger.

Simple enough, right?

Except I made three trips to the office before I ever got it.

  • Trip 1: I saw food left out in the kitchen. My brain latched on. “This needs to be handled.” So I handled it.
  • Trip 2: I heard Big Mac. He was still up—he hadn’t taken his meds. That became the new priority.
  • Trip 3: I finally got what I originally came for: my phone charger.

And somewhere between trips two and three, it hit me.

This is how my brain has always worked.

🧠 First Grade Was the First Clue

I was diagnosed with ADHD in first grade, in Mrs. Miles’ class.
But instead of support, I was pulled away from my classmates and placed at a separate desk.

They said it was to help me focus.
What it really did was label me, without a word.

No fidgets. No flexibility. Just isolation and pressure.
“Sit still. Focus. Try harder.”

That was the first time I remember feeling like I didn’t belong.

And the bullying? It followed fast and hard.

✨ The Exception

But not every classroom was a battlefield.

In 2nd and 4th grade, I had Mr. Lane.

He always met me where I was.
He didn’t shame me for how my brain worked—he adjusted.
He was calm. Creative. Patient.
He was my Mrs. Jones. The kind of teacher who stays with you long after the spelling tests are gone.

And it was in his class—the last week of 4th grade—that I finally started ADHD medication.

It didn’t fix everything, but it was the first time something lifted—the fog, the shame, the sense that I was just lazy.
For once, I could focus, and someone saw me instead of a problem.

In a blur of years where I was too much for most, Mr. Lane made me feel just right.

🪙 The Tokens

By fifth grade, in Ms. Arnold’s class, everything had gotten harder.
Puberty had started. My cycle had begun. Hormones were raging—and my ADHD symptoms intensified.

Her intentions weren’t unkind, but the system? It still missed the mark.

Their solution?

A manila envelope filled with three jagged squares of neon posterboard, cut hastily and uneven.

That was my limit:

  • Three times I could get out of my seat.
  • Three questions I could ask.

If I didn’t use them, I could save them.
Behavioral currency for basic needs.

This wasn’t support.
It was containment.

I didn’t need restrictions.
I needed understanding.
Instead, I got scraps of neon paper.

🔥 Fire #1 – The School

In fifth grade, I was outside playing when I heard the fire alarms blaring from the school.

We lived close enough that I could hear them from the yard—and when they didn’t stop, we went to see what was going on.

My school was on fire.

We later learned it was arson—someone had broken in with a blowtorch and set it.

Our class was displaced for the rest of the year.
We were first moved into the old multipurpose room, then into portables.
Nothing felt normal.
Nothing felt safe.

I had just started ADHD medication a few months earlier, at the end of 4th grade with Mr. Lane.

But it was hard to tell what was working when everything around me was on fire—figuratively and literally.

🔥 Fire #2 – A Flashback I’ll Never Forget

On my 13th birthday—January 7th—I was in the last period of the school day when I heard the sirens:

Fire trucks. So many of them.

As I walked home, I saw the trucks lining the street.
I saw smoke rising above my neighborhood.

Then I turned the corner.

Our car was pushed up on a neighbor’s lawn—my mom had driven it there herself after seeing the smoke, rushing to reach the house and check on my brothers.

They had gotten home before me and followed our plan, running to the neighbors across the street.

And then I saw it:

Our building.
The two upper units were on fire.
Our ground-level home didn’t burn—but it was filled with smoke and flooded with water. Everything we owned was damaged.

We couldn’t stay.

We moved in with my grandparents.
I slept on a mattress in the formal dining room.

It wasn’t just what we lost.
It was how fast we had to leave it behind.

👀 Then My Son Looked at Me

Fast forward.

Big Mac— our son with autism—looked at me one day and said:

“Mama… maybe you’re like me.”

And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

Maybe it wasn’t just ADHD.
Maybe I’ve spent my whole life masking something more.

The sensory overload. The rigidity. The shutdowns.
The way I get so overstimulated I forget what I was doing in the first place.

Maybe it’s not forgetfulness.
Maybe it’s a lifetime of trying to act “normal” while quietly unraveling inside.

🦖 Don’t Step on a Crack

I saw the plan.

The desk chart. The new rules.
The quiet spaces that looked a lot like isolation in disguise.

And I saw my son—about to fall into the same cracks I had fought so hard to crawl out of.

Virtual learning didn’t feel safe.
It felt familiar.

“Don’t step on a crack, or you’ll fall and break your back.”
I used to think it was just a rhyme.
Now I know—it was a warning.

💬 What I Know Now

I may never have a paper diagnosis.
But I have a brain that keeps revealing more of its story every day.

I met with my therapist yesterday and told her about the blog.
I talked about what I’m starting to write, and the memories that won’t stop coming.

She told me what I’m doing is amazing.
She said this work is healing.

She’s encouraged me to journal my trauma before, but I’ve always said the same thing:

“I hate writing.”

I didn’t want to sit with it. I didn’t want to re-live it.

But this—this is different.

This is witnessing.
This is me giving voice to stories I’ve carried in silence for too long.

Stories I’ve only just begun to speak out loud.
Even Sparkey hasn’t heard them all.

Until now, I had only shared my pain story—and Small Fry’s birth.
But now they’re spilling out.

And I’m not trying to stop them.

Because I remember what it felt like to fall through the cracks.
And I’m building something steadier—for our boys, for our family… and maybe for me, too.