Story 00: My Stories – Medicine, Misdiagnosis, and the A.D.H.D Maze

In the world of A.D.H.D, the road is rarely straight. Mine was littered with prescriptions—medications meant to fix a problem but often created more chaos than clarity. I was a human guinea pig, shuffled from one drug to the next, often leaving the doctor’s office with more questions than answers and a prescription slip I didn’t trust.

Over the years, a staggering array of medications was prescribed to tackle my struggles with sleep, depression, A.D.H.D, and anxiety. For sleep, I cycled through Trazodone (prescribed at least ten times), Quetiapine (twelve times), Zolpidem (eight times), Zopiclone (fourteen times), and Sublinox (six times). Each promised restful nights but often delivered groggy mornings and unsettling dreams instead. Depression saw its turn with Duloxetine, Mirtazapine, Fluoxetine, Trintellix, Cipralex, Elavil, and Citalopram—each prescribed repeatedly over the decades, none quite fitting the mark. A.D.H.D treatments included Dextroamphetamine (sixteen times), Amphetamine XR (ten times), Vyvanse (eight times), and Concerta (twelve times), while anxiety brought its own set of recurring prescriptions: Clonazepam (over twenty times) and Quetiapine, again, as a dual-purpose medication.

These medications often felt like attempts to quiet the symptoms without understanding the root causes, leading to a revolving door of prescriptions. Despite the promises of relief, many left me feeling detached, overly medicated, or worse off, highlighting the importance of proper diagnosis and individualized care in navigating the complexities of A.D.H.D, depression, and related conditions.

In and Out of Pharmacies

More times than I care to count, I found myself back at the pharmacy, handing over barely-used bottles and blister packs. Some drugs left me numb, a shell of myself, wandering through the day without a sense of who I was. Others turned me into an insomniac or made my heart race like I was running a marathon while sitting still. These weren’t solutions—they were escape routes for the doctors who just wanted me out of their office.

It’s hard to describe how dehumanizing it is to be told, time after time, that the answer to your struggles is a little pill. "This will fix it," they’d say, but no one ever stopped to ask why I was so scattered, why my mind raced, or why I could never quite fit into the mold society expected. They didn’t see the A.D.H.D; they just saw a problem they wanted to medicate away.

Fighting for Myself

The hardest part wasn’t even the misdiagnosis—it was the refusal to dig deeper. Tests were few and far between. "Try this," they’d say, and I’d end up feeling like a science experiment gone wrong. I didn’t need another prescription; I needed someone to see me as a person.

The Grit of Misdiagnosis

Each bottle was a silent testimony to how little effort was made to truly understand what was going on. Many times, I’d return to the pharmacy within days, asking to dispose of the latest failed experiment. I’d rather feel everything—even the chaos—than live in a medicated fog where I wasn’t sure if I was even human anymore.

Doctors seemed to treat me like a puzzle they couldn’t solve. Instead of asking the right questions or digging deeper, they’d hand me a prescription as if to say, “This should keep you quiet.” It’s infuriating to think of how many years were lost to being someone else’s convenient solution.

Lessons Learned

Eventually, I stopped trusting the system. I learned to advocate for myself, to dig into the research, and to understand that A.D.H.D wasn’t a death sentence—it was a different way of thinking. The medications weren’t all bad. Some of them helped in specific situations, but they weren’t the answer. The answer came in understanding myself, accepting the chaos of my mind, and learning to navigate the world in my own way.

Looking Back

If there’s one thing this journey has taught me, it’s that the quick fix is rarely the right fix. A.D.H.D is complex, messy, and often misunderstood. But it’s not a problem to be solved; it’s a reality to be embraced. And sometimes, the best medicine isn’t in a bottle—it’s in the grit, determination, and courage to keep going, one step at a time.

The Process of This Book

This book is a window into my life—a raw, unfiltered account of what it’s like to live with A.D.H.D. From the first realization that something was different about me to the moments of triumph where I turned struggles into strengths, this is my journey. Along the way, I’ve changed my diet, shifted my attitude, and replaced struggle with passion.

Every story here is intentionally short because, let’s face it, my “special power” wouldn’t let me sit still long enough to read a long book. If you’re like me, read until you’re bored, then come back later. Some of this stuff is good, and it’s all true. But remember, this is my life and my perspective. Don’t do as I do—do what’s good for you.

 

 Living with A.D.H.D and Depression: A Partner’s Journey

Living with someone who has A.D.H.D and depression is hard. It changes you in ways you don’t expect. My husband, Chris, has dealt with both for as long as I’ve known him, and while I love him deeply, being his partner hasn’t always been easy. It’s tested my patience, my strength, and my ability to take care of myself while supporting him through some very dark times.

When Chris was deep in his depression, it was like he wasn’t there at all. He’d shut down completely. Some days, he wouldn’t talk to me at all, but he’d pick up the phone and talk to the kids or his friends like nothing was wrong. That hurt. It felt like I wasn’t worth the effort. I knew it wasn’t intentional—he wasn’t trying to hurt me—but it still left me feeling invisible and lonely.

I dreaded winters the most. The first cold day or the first snowflake seemed to trigger something in him, especially if he wasn’t working. He’d sit in his chair for hours, staring at the TV, barely moving. The man I fell in love with felt so far away. Work was his way of coping, and when he was busy, he could give everything he had. But when there wasn’t work to throw himself into, the depression always seemed to take over.

In those early years, I was scared he’d just leave one day. I could see it in his eyes sometimes—the urge to escape, to drive off and not come back. I didn’t know what to do. I blamed myself. I thought maybe I’d said or done something wrong. I kept trying to fix things, but nothing seemed to help. Depression isn’t something you can fix for someone else. That’s something I had to learn the hard way.

I realized I couldn’t let myself be dragged down with him. I had to find ways to keep going, even when he couldn’t. I started taking the dogs out more, going to the gym, just doing anything to give myself a break. I learned to step away when I needed to. It wasn’t easy, but it kept me sane.

Music was one of the few things that could bring Chris back, even if only for a night. When he played, it was like he came alive again. I could see the man I fell in love with—the one who made me laugh, who was passionate and kind. Those moments reminded me why I stayed, even when it was hard.

Over time, I started to see Chris’s A.D.H.D and depression for what they were. At first, they felt like these big, uncontrollable forces that stole him away from me. But as I learned more about them, I realized they were also part of what made him who he is. His A.D.H.D makes him creative, resourceful, and full of ideas. He can accomplish more in one focused day than most people can in a week. His depression, as hard as it is, gives him a deep understanding of others. He’s empathetic in a way that few people are.

The turning point came when Chris started to accept his diagnoses. For years, he pushed against them, like acknowledging them would mean he’d failed somehow. But acceptance doesn’t mean failure—it’s the first step toward figuring things out. Losing our son, Evan, forced him to confront parts of himself he’d been avoiding for years. It wasn’t an easy process, but it opened the door for Chris to start talking about his struggles, his fears, and what he wanted for the future.

I won’t lie—living with someone who has A.D.H.D and depression is exhausting. There are days when it feels like too much, when the loneliness and frustration are overwhelming. But it’s also taught me so much. I’ve learned to take care of myself, to find joy and purpose even when things feel heavy. I’ve learned that I can’t fix Chris, but I can love and support him. And I’ve learned that he’s so much more than his struggles.

For Chris, the shift came when he started to see his A.D.H.D and depression not as burdens but as part of who he is. They come with challenges, yes, but also with gifts. His creativity, his resilience, his ability to connect with people—those are all strengths that come from the same place as his struggles. It’s not easy to live with A.D.H.D and depression, but it’s also not impossible. It’s about finding balance, learning to communicate, and letting go of the shame that so often comes with these diagnoses.

If I could share one thing with anyone in a similar situation, it’s this: Don’t try to fix the person you love. That’s not your job. Your job is to take care of yourself so you can be there for them. You can’t pour from an empty cup. Find what makes you happy, what keeps you grounded, and don’t feel guilty for taking that time for yourself.

For those who are struggling with A.D.H.D and depression, my advice is this: Accept who you are. It’s not a weakness to admit you’re struggling. In fact, it’s the strongest thing you can do. Once Chris started to accept himself, he found ways to use his A.D.H.D to his advantage. He stopped fighting against his depression and started finding tools to manage it. It’s a process, but it’s worth it.

Chris has always worked harder than anyone I know. He gives everything he has to his jobs, his projects, and his music. That determination is what’s carried him through, and it’s what will keep carrying him forward. He has more strengths than weaknesses, and he’s finally starting to see that for himself.

Living with A.D.H.D and depression isn’t easy, but it’s not the end of the world either. It’s just one part of a bigger story. For Chris, for me, and for anyone else out there dealing with the same thing, the most important thing is to keep going. Learn, grow, and don’t be afraid to lean on the people who love you. There’s strength in that too.