More ADHD and Autism.

 

I am outlining the complexities of writing about Autism and ADHD, highlighting their multifaceted nature and the wide range of experiences individuals face.  I was never diagnosed. Story: Struggling in School, it was confusing, I was never diagnosed.

School was always confusing and stressful for me, but back then, I didn’t understand why. I knew I wasn’t “naughty,” but I kept getting told off for things I couldn’t help—fidgeting, losing focus, forgetting homework, not that I had much homework if any at all, talking too much, or not talking at all. It felt like I was always getting something wrong, even when I was trying my best.

I remember one lesson where the teacher asked us to copy something off the board. Everyone else seemed to just get on with it, but I found it nearly impossible to keep my eyes on the board and my hand moving at the same time. I’d write two words and then lose my place. My heart would race with frustration, and sometimes I’d just give up and pretend to be finished. The teacher thought I was being lazy or defiant, but really, my brain just couldn’t keep up in the way others expected it to.

Group work was another nightmare. The noise, the pressure to speak at the right time, the feeling of being judged if I said something “weird”—it was exhausting. I didn’t understand the rules of social interaction the way others seemed to. If I was too quiet, I was ignored. If I tried to join in, I was sometimes laughed at. That made me anxious about even trying. No one ever asked me why I was struggling. They just assumed I wasn’t trying hard enough.

School was meant to be a place to learn and grow, but for me, it was mostly a place of confusion, stress, and feeling like I didn’t belong. Long before I knew anything about ADHD or Autism, I already knew I was different—but I didn’t know why. I wasn’t trying to be difficult. I tried really hard to be “good,” to fit in, and to please the teachers. But no matter what I did, I always seemed to fall short.

I remember sitting in class one day, trying to copy something off the board. What seemed simple to the other kids felt like a mountain to me. My eyes kept jumping, my hand couldn’t keep up, and the harder I tried, the more flustered I became. I felt embarrassed and panicked. Eventually, I gave up and just sat there pretending I was finished. The teacher told me off for not doing the work, but how could I explain what I couldn’t even understand myself?

Things like group work were just as hard. The noise, the pressure to talk at the “right” time, and the fear of being judged if I said something wrong or too “weird” often left me frozen or overwhelmed. Sometimes I was too quiet and felt invisible; other times, I’d try to join in and be laughed at or misunderstood. I wanted friends—I wanted to belong—but I often felt like I was speaking a different language.

At the time, no one thought to ask why I was struggling. I was just labelled as shy, distracted, emotional, or difficult. But I was none of those things—not really. I was overwhelmed. I was masking. I was doing my best in a system that wasn’t built for my kind of brain.

Not having a diagnosis meant I grew up thinking that something was wrong with me. I internalized a lot of that blame. I thought I was lazy, or stupid, or just not trying hard enough. It wasn’t until much later, after years of struggling with mental health, low confidence, and burnout, that I finally started to get answers. Getting a diagnosis helped me see that I wasn’t broken—I was neurodivergent. And that difference came with strengths, as well as challenges.

Looking back, I realize how important it is for children and adults to be seen, heard, and supported for who they are, not judged by how well they fit into someone else's idea of "normal." That’s why I share these stories. Because no one should grow up believing they’re not good enough just because their brain works differently.