Typical, Not Typical

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I got my first pair of glasses in Grade 6. They had blue rectangle frames with yellow polka dots on the side. Dope. Before my dad even pulled out his credit card to pay for them, I had already mentally picked out which lululemon headband I was going to wear for the grand reveal at school. My little brother seemed disappointed in his 20/20 vision; he had tried his best to fail his eye exam, too. He slightly crossed his eyes to blur his vision, and he stumbled over the letters on the wall. They didn’t buy it. He later admitted he wanted to be just like me. But I was excited to finally have something he didn’t have. We already shared so much: the same hazel eyes, the same sense of humour, the same beauty mark in the middle of our left cheek. 

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I’m almost two years older than him, but the age gap used to feel significant. I made being a big sister my job: I’d scrub the toilet with his toothbrush when he made me angry, and I’d defend him when nobody else would. He was the poster child for ADHD, never sitting still or staying focused for long. During chores, it took about five minutes before he’d start smacking things with a stick, and he often came home with a note from his teacher crumpled in the bottom of his backpack, but boys will be boys. 

Nobody had to worry about me — I was perfect. I tried to shield my brother from mistakes, and I always wanted to be in control. I was often called “mother hen.” It was a cute nickname, but I felt it had a negative connotation. Am I too much?

It made my stomach hurt when he got in trouble. I hate how unreasonable everyone is. The criticism didn’t seem to bother him, but I absorbed it all — I was the sensitive kid. When he got scolded, it felt like a personal attack on me. I saw him as a reflection of myself and felt responsible for his actions. I’d snap back and remind them it’s not his fault, he can’t help it. I should get that tattooed on my forehead. Maybe it would also stop people from grilling me when I can’t explain why I get so “worked up” sometimes. 

I was constantly worried about how I was perceived, and I wanted to please everyone. My worst fear was people finding out I was trying just as hard as my brother. I needed to do what I was told, get good grades, stay out of trouble, and most importantly, prove I was nothing like him. I was motivated by being “the good girl,” and I put a tremendous amount of time and energy into the façade. I felt ashamed when I failed to meet those expectations. I was drowned out by my brother’s behaviour, and I suffered in silence.

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I still remember the look on my dad’s face when the doctor asked if I ever thought about suicide. She said it so casually, as if it were a normal question for a 15-year-old girl. I was so embarrassed. She caught me. I didn’t want my dad to worry or think less of me. But I caught the lie before it could fall out of my mouth and said, yes. There was an awkward silence before she started firing off a list of questions. I wonder if she regrets letting my dad stay in the room. From the corner of my eye, I watched him wipe a tear from his cheek. I broke his heart. I should’ve lied.

I was sent home with a handful of diagnoses, a prescription, and a children’s book about emotions. What the hell am I supposed to do with a children’s book? I wear push-up bras, and I know how to smoke weed out of an apple. I didn’t want to be at the appointment in the first place. I thought the way I felt was normal. What are people going to think? Depression, generalized anxiety, social anxiety, and panic disorder. What does that even mean? Fluoxetine? I thought pills in little orange bottles were for adults with real problems. I’m not taking those. I saw how much stress my brother’s ADHD caused everyone. We couldn’t even have red dye 40 because of him. He’s the one who needs help, not me.

I rehearsed conversations in my head over and over in case I was forced to share to shameful secret. Nobody would even believe me. I’m supposed to be the funny friend. Who’s going to make me laugh? It felt like there were two versions of me. Everything about myself was contradictory. Are you telling me “Little Miss Motor Mouth” has nothing to say? Surely it will pass. Maybe it’s a teenage girl thing. I’ll grow out of this. I can’t go back to school yet, my eyes are still red and puffy. Do we have basketball practice today?

I was no stranger to panic attacks, but I never thought it would happen outside the comfort of my home. They always started with a racing heart, a rash across my chest and face, sweaty hands and armpits, and ringing in my ears. Then they would progress into chest pain, hyperventilation, loss of vision, and an intense feeling of impending doom. I started to recognize the patterns and tried my best to avoid any situation that could trigger one. For me, it was stress, ambiguity, big crowds, public scrutiny, and the fear of fear. But sometimes, they came on for no reason.  

I’ve always been an energetic, outgoing person. It was confusing being debilitated by something so “out of character.” Being unable to do simple tasks without feeling chronically overwhelmed was frustrating, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t control my snowballing thoughts. Thankfully, I was prone to stomach aches. It was an easy excuse for my Irish exits. But I knew people were getting suspicious of the prevalence. I’ll never forget how humiliated I felt the first time I was exposed in real-time. 

I was sitting beside my best friend, whom I had still not told my secret to. Ugh, I forgot we had homework again. As soon as the teacher closed the big wooden door, I became very aware of my own heartbeat. How am I supposed to pay attention in class when all I could think about was what I would say if I got called on? Yup. There it is. My teacher asked a simple question, and all I could do was shrug my shoulders. Say something, you idiot. I knew the answer, but it felt like it was caked to the back of my skull, and my mouth couldn’t keep up with my mind. My teacher kept pushing for an answer, but I was frozen. He slowed down his words and turned to the whiteboard to “walk me through it” in front of the class. I grabbed my things and rushed out of the room before the chest pains started. I walked home covered in tears. I didn’t go back to school for three days. Do you think people will believe me if I tell them it was a stomach ache again?

I was starting to notice how the rules would bend only for me, and that my teachers were giving me extra attention, but I didn’t understand why. I’m not my brother. I was allowed to go for a ‘walk’ when I wanted, I had VIP seating near the teacher’s desk, and when it was time for tests, I was offered my own room. Why was I the only one being pulled from class all the time, and why was I being treated differently than my peers? 

Do these glasses make me look smarter?

I constantly felt like I had an itch I couldn’t scratch, but when I played sports, it wasn’t as noticeable. I got to take my anger out on the innocent girls who got a little too close, and it felt good to do well in something I didn’t have to try so hard for. I was named athlete of the year three times in a row in high school. Probably out of pity. I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with basketball. I loved the excitement, the speed, and the strategy, but for some reason, I could never remember the actual plays, and I needed countless reminders before I got it right. Some athlete, hey? I should probably throw out the half-eaten sandwich sitting on my car floor.

I often led the pre-game warm-up and cheer, and my teammates relied on me to bring my goofy, lively attitude. But then I experienced my first panic attack doing something I loved, and my relationship with sports changed in a matter of seconds. My heart dropped into my stomach, and I immediately knew what was coming. I quickly ran to the locker room and began hyperventilating without the luxury of the usual warning signs. I didn’t come out until my face was no longer flushed and I regained my vision. For the rest of the game, I was glued to the bench with a throbbing headache and couldn’t say a word. How am I supposed to trust my own brain? Everything feels like a threat.

I hope someone asks how I’m doing. I noticed the how-to-help-your-anxious-kid books on my dad’s nightstand. Maybe he will check in on me soon. There’s nothing “sweet” about being 16.

I was one absence away from getting suspended. Sounds more like a reward than a punishment to me. I’d never been suspended before. My brother had though. But that was for crushing up Rockets and snorting them in the middle of class. And another time for smacking an EA (gently, in his defence) to win “Hit Man,” a game he and his friends made up that involved ‘hitting’ three people, ranked easiest to hardest, by the end of the day. He was the disruption. I was the disappointment. 

When my brother and I were both at the peak of our struggles in our early teenage years, completely unknown to each other, we started to push each other away. We took everything out on each other and became resentful of the one person who might have understood. We got a thrill out of fist fights and name-calling. He HATED when I called him a spaz. How did I go from being someone he looked up to, to being a stranger he knew nothing about? I see the way my brother looks at me. I felt like a zoo animal. My dad keeps asking if I need to see someone. Just let me sleep, it’s not even 2 p.m. yet. 

I longed for the time when my brother and I were inseparable. We shared a bedroom until middle school and entertained ourselves by shoving toys and books down the vent. We always had a jar of worms or caterpillars on the top of our dresser. I hated the scratchy blue carpet, but I hope nobody ever fixes the ceiling full of paint chips from our glow-in-the-dark stars. How did we get here?

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My dad sat in the waiting area with me, but this time he didn’t come in to meet the doctor. I mean, I was almost 17. I’m practically an adult. I wonder how many places he had to call until he found someone who would take me on such short notice. I feel hopeful this time. The lady at the front desk actually looked up from her computer. She even smiled. I was brought into a dimly lit room and plopped myself into the big leather chair. I have a pink Himalayan salt lamp at home just like this one. Do you think some of the patients have licked it when nobody was in the room? I probably shouldn’t. I wish my brother were here so I could dare him to.

I was soothed by the voice that belonged to the lady in the big white lab coat. She seemed to have had a lot of experience with people like me. She’s prescribed me Sertraline to treat my anxiety and depression. I trust her. In fact, I owe her. She’s the first person to actually hear me, not just listen. Sure, she gets paid, but I feel like more than just a name in her schedule. Every couple of weeks, I met with the nice lab coat lady, and she’d ask if I could name at least three things I was thankful for. As my Sertraline dose went up, it got easier to appreciate the things around me. But I was still apprehensive about feeling better. I found comfort in my discomfort. At least I knew what to expect. Besides, feeling better never lasted. 

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I fell in love with drawing the moment I learned how to hold a pencil. If anyone is going to find something to draw on, it’s me — napkins at the curling rink, the back of a bus seat, school binders, the palm of my left hand, the bottom of my Chuck Taylors, crumpled up gas receipts, you name it. Oops. I didn’t hear what my dad said. Hopefully nothing important. Keeping my hand busy with a pen stopped my mind from screaming, and it tuned out the world around me. I liked being in my own world. Jeez, it’s been five hours. I forgot to eat again. 

My friends had already been going to university for a year. I had only been there a month. I wish I could make a living off doodles. I’m not cut out for school. I can’t drop out now, I’m already behind. The classroom is huge, and the professor doesn’t even know I exist — my dream — but I hate it here. I’m not ready. 

I felt like an imposter for needing a synthetic drug to function. At least I could get out of bed and brush my hair, and I only got panic attacks every few months instead of every week. But why does it still feel like I’m walking through quicksand? 

My medication felt like a weapon at times. “Did you take your meds?” felt like an insult. Is the real me that bad that I’m not allowed to show any evidence of it? And yes, I did take my meds. There were many times I thought I was “cured,” and went off them. Each time I did, I was sure it was going to be the last. I was stuck on a roller coaster with no brakes, and I was sick of the whiplash it gave me. I was numb. Am I ever going to be ready? Why are the scissors always missing? I need to give myself a bob.

I always knew it was bad again when my brother would sit at the edge of my bed and try to make small talk. It annoyed me. I just wanted to be alone, and I didn’t want him to see me the same way I saw myself. He should be worried about high school graduation, not his older sister’s next move. But in those moments, it felt like we were kids. The only two people who understood each other. When did you grow a moustache?

I was exhausted in a way sleep couldn’t fix. Aren’t your early 20s supposed to be the best years of your life? That’s what my grandma tells me. I was already a university dropout who took a gap year. Okay — multiple, to travel. I had finally broken up with my loser boyfriend. That’s a plus. The only stable, consistent relationship I had was with my doctor.  She had only known me for a few years. The nice lab coat lady recommended her to my dad. He didn’t have to force me to go to appointments anymore. I really like her. I wonder if she knows how often I lie to her. I’m great! How are you?

She must know. Why else would she be asking to reassess me? ADHD? That’s my brother’s thing — what does that have to do with me? Seriously? She wants me to see ANOTHER psychiatrist?  She was certain she already knew what they would say but wanted to take extra precaution due to my “long history.” I didn’t want to add another name to my Rolodex. I wasn’t like my brother, you know, the kid who can’t eat bacon anymore because he choked on it too many times, the dandelion picker on the soccer team. Hello?!

I was running late for my appointment. He gestured for me to take a seat in the empty chair in the middle of the room. He? Great. Can’t wait to hear his condescending opinion. At what age do we stop blaming hormones? I think 22 is old enough. The only source of light came from the large south-facing windows. What’s with psychiatrists’ obsession with the dark? He sat almost 10 feet away from me. Weird setup, buddy. I don’t remember the first thing he said to me, but I remember it making me cry. Not in a bad way. Who knew a man responsible for a woman’s mental health could be so empathetic and intuitive? He handed me a box of tissues before I knew I needed it. Is that why he’s sitting so far away? Is he afraid I’ll get snot all over him? Oh god, why is he asking if I hear or see things sometimes? Not this again. 

After what felt like the longest conversation of my life, I fixed my dumbfounded face and tried to process what I heard. He described my childhood and adolescent years as if he were there. He even pointed out every red flag he noticed during the assessment and the one before we actually started. I’m usually quicker than Google Maps.

Combined presentation of ADHD, huh. Severe too. His words, not mine. He told me ADHD is less recognized in girls because they tend to mask their struggles and present with less disruptive symptoms. Did I mention it’s highly genetic?

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Failing to address ADHD, especially for women, increases the risk of self-destructive behaviours, mental health difficulties, and suicidal planning and thoughts. I liked the analogy he used, “Living with untreated ADHD is like trying to see without glasses.” 

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The other day, I was moving things from the attic and found two big plastic bins with my and my brother’s names on them. I sat criss-cross applesauce with my flashlight and began riffling through piles of ‘junk’. My dad held onto almost every piece of our childhood — drawings, notes to the tooth fairy, report cards, letters, everything. Apparently, it didn’t hurt when the dentist pulled my silver tooth, and eating hot dogs was the most important task on my summer break to-do list. 

When I got to the last pile of memories, I caught a glimpse of a familiar booklet that made my heart hurt.  It was from a school-based program, FRIENDS, to help me manage my emotions, thoughts, and responses to challenging situations to prevent future psychopathology. It was designed to be an “experience that does not involve any clinical assessment or diagnosis and avoids labelling students as anxious or different.”  My brother and I were both around the same age when our behaviour became apparent and needed intervention, but he was flagged with ADHD, and I was labelled as a typical young girl with big feelings and confidence issues. 

For years, studies on ADHD have been primarily based on the behaviours of boys, and girls slipped through the cracks because they didn’t fit the same description. As a result, the chances of anxiety and mood disorders significantly increase. Dr. Darcy Cantin, Clinical Health Psychologist at Health Sciences Centre, says ADHD is primarily seen as two things: hyperactivity and inattention. But one of the biggest indicators, emotional dysregulation, was missed for a very long time. It took Dr. Cantin 40 years to get diagnosed, me 22, and my brother seven. 

As much as I tried not to be like my brother, I see now that I was and I am. Looking through these pieces of my younger self was cathartic. I’m 27 years old now, but I still see myself in that little girl with a bowl cut and cheeky smile. 

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For weeks after my ADHD diagnosis, I thought about writing my doctor to say thank you. I was so relieved, kind of like unzipping your high-waisted jeans after a big meal. But I can’t help but think about the years lost to a version of myself I believed was fundamentally flawed. For half my life, the only motivation I had was the thought of high school graduation, that I just needed to survive long enough so my disappearance wouldn’t be as noticeable. After reaching the one milestone I’d set for myself, I’d set another, and I’d white-knuckle for as long as I could. 

I backpacked Southeast Asia for two months with a couple of friends, I saw my favourite bands perform live, I helped my friends move in and decorate their first apartments, I watched the Canadian prairies turn into mountains and oceans from the front seat of a van, I picked up new hobbies, I took a month-long solo trip to Costa Rica, I even attended college, and I reconnected with my first best friend, my brother. 

I don’t have to take care of him anymore, but I’m here if he needs me. 

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I got a different kind of glasses in my early 20s. But they’re not blue, and they don’t have yellow polka dots. They’re in a little orange bottle, and they scratch that itch I otherwise can’t reach. THIS is how I’m supposed to feel. It’s. So. Quiet.

I’ve realized my and my brother’s greatest ‘weaknesses’ were actually the parts of us most alike. Finally seeing that has made our connection effortless again. He’s one of the best people I know, someone I’m proud to call my best friend. What pushed us apart is exactly what binds us together.

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