Fifteen years ago, when I was diagnosed with ADHD, I spent a lot of time doing that thing that football coaches do with their players to learn from the past and improve their game: Watching the film. There are other terms for it. First responders and the military may call it a debriefing (in the sense of its second definition — “to carefully review upon completion” — rather than “to interrogate”). Others, especially English teachers wanting students to write about an experience, call it “reflecting.”
I call it “obsessing.”
The year was 2008. I was going through marriage counseling, my marriage was failing, and my soon-to-be-ex was adamant that I was bipolar. The therapist tried to refer me to psychiatrists specializing in BPD, but I wasn’t very keen on that. That part of my mind that is really good at knowing a movie outcome well before the end was flashing warning lights at me: He’s trying to set you up as unstable in order to take your son from you.
With that warning in mind, I told them both I would agree to be evaluated, but not by a doctor of their choosing. At the next session, I brought the provider director for my health insurance company, opened it to psychiatrists, and made my husband and therapist watch while I closed my eyes, stabbed a finger at the page, and chose a provider blindly.
I thought that would be the best way so he couldn’t go to court and say I handpicked someone who would say I was fine.
Part 1: The Origin Story
I pulled up to the non-descript beige office park and pulled into the parking spot in front of a door with a sign next to it for Dr. Raymond Porter*, MD, PsyD. As I turned off the car, I seethed, glaring at the frosted glass door as if it had personally slighted me.
“Now I have to waste my time and my money because of that idiot.” I growled under my breath and exited the car, heading towards the small office. As I laid my hand on the handle of the frosted office door, I took a deep breath and put my face in order (or as I would later learn, I put my mask on). Then I stepped inside with a smile.
The receptionist provided me with the requisite forms and I sat down to fill them out. I’m pretty sure doctors’ offices decide on how many you have to fill out on their level of sadism. For example, when I went to a therapist for depression in the early 90s, I had a single page. The dentist? You would THINK they would have the most pages of all, but no, only two or three. Physical therapist? Again, a surprisingly small number of forms. But a psychiatrist? Someone who you are going to be helped out with some pretty big mental struggles? I didn’t think I’d ever finish. Maybe that’s part of the evaluation? Who knows.
Anyhow, after I finished writing, by hand, something that felt like I’d just penned a new War and Peace book, I was taken back to the doctor’s office to meet him.
He was probably one of the largest men I’d ever met, easily topping 6' 6" and not fat, but definitely not slight-of-frame, either. His skin was a milk chocolate color, and his eyes were green, which was a fascinating combination, and he seemed to be in his 50s. But the best part of meeting my new doctor was his laugh — it was infectious, and he spent the first few minutes just getting to know me and putting me at ease while he reviewed my manuscript submission.
After about five minutes (he was apparently a fast reader), he sat aside my stack of papers and picked up a clipboard with an attached notepad. Here we go.
“So, why are you here today?” He asked this while tapping his pen lightly on the notepad.
I stared at the tapping pen, willing myself to NOT say, “It was on the very first page of the forms.” Instead, I managed to immediately launch into a barrage of words, “I need to be evaluated for BPD. My husband thinks I have it. The marriage counselor wanted me to see bipolar-specific doctors. And I think they are just trying to set me up to take my son. So I need an honest evaluation. But I don’t think I’m bipolar. I think my COUSIN is bipolar. But not me. I just get so frustrated sometimes with him and with myself and it’s so hard to just want to be the Stepford wife he wants. And he’s not perfect either, he never spends time with our son unless I make him, and…”
I finally pause, having noticed that the pen was no longer tapping, it was scribbling.
The silence probably only lasted 30 seconds at most, but it felt like an hour.
The actual hour was spent with a fairly exhaustive — and exhausting — evaluation. Near the end of our session, he laid his clipboard on his lap and smiled at me before he stated, “You are definitely not bipolar.”
I sighed in relief. “Can I get that in writing? Just in case I need it?”
He chuckled. “Of course. But first, we need to talk about your diagnosis. I said you are definitely not bipolar, but you most certainly have ADHD.”
I stared at him in shock, and I wouldn’t doubt that my mouth was even hanging open, but I slapped the appropriate mask back on and shook my head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think that’s a thing. I think that’s something parents who don’t know how to parent get their kids diagnosed with so they can medicate them. Plus, I’m not even hyper.”
I used to have all the prejudices, in case that wasn’t clear.
He sat aside his pen and clipboard and uncrossed his legs, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his thighs. “Have you ever had brain cancer?”
“No.” I was confused, and the deep wrinkle in my forehead showed it.
“Do you know anyone who had brain cancer?”
“No.”
“Do you think brain cancer is a made-up diagnosis for people that have lots of headaches and just want drugs or attention?”
“Well, no.”
He leaned back. “Then why can’t you believe ADHD is real?” Before I could respond, he continued, “I want to prescribe you non-stimulant ADHD medication. It will take up to four weeks to really build up enough in your system to notice any changes. I want you to take this and come back in six weeks and tell me if you still believe ADHD isn’t real. Will you do that for me?”
I studied him silently. He seemed sincere, and I liked that he was giving my science-y brain a chance to test his hypothesis instead of just demanding I take the medications. Then I asked, “How do you know for sure it’s ADHD and not BPD?”
“Because the ADHD medications will make bipolar symptoms much worse. So you’ll either feel better and more regulated, or you won’t.”
And that sold me. A drug that could prove I didn’t have BPD? That was better than considering that I could actually have ADHD.
“Okay. I’ll try it.”
He smiled and stood, motioning for me to stand as well. We walked out to the receptionist’s desk where he filled out the prescription and I scheduled my next appointment. As he handed me the small slip of paper, he said, “There’s nothing wrong with having ADHD. And I believe you have the inattentive type. We can talk more about it when you come back, but I recommend you read up on it so I can better answer your questions. Right now, your main focus needs to be taking the medication daily and noting how things change for you in regard to your mental focus and emotions, okay?”
I nodded and smiled back, clutching the evil little piece of paper in my hand. I hated pills, but I hated the thought of losing my son even more, and that hate and fear fueled me as I left his office and off into the next chapter of my life.
*The doctor’s name was changed
