Diagnosed

Please, for the love of all that is Netflix, don’t comment “Is this a surprise to anyone?” under this blog post.

Because, yes, yes it is a surprise to me. And it’s so frustrating that this took almost TWENTY-FOUR YEARS for someone to tell me.

Let’s backtrack.

Over a month ago, I went to a new therapist for the first time and asked her why I can’t remember half my life, why I have so much trouble following people who are talking to me, and why I focus better while playing a dumb, mindless game on my phone.

“Has anyone ever tested you for ADHD?”

Ari’s Best Friends

Her eyes glaze over, her chest shakes with laughter, she falls onto her back and her fingers rake against the glaring white ground.

It was 2008.

No… 2007.

2006?

It was a while ago when Ari first met her best friends.

She was five.

So it would have been 2006, right?

HERS.

Therapy. Doctors. Endless conversations. Even a hypnotist once.

“You’re in shock.” “You’ve experienced great tragedy and loss.” “Trauma plagues you every day.” “You need help.” “What you’ve experienced follows you every day.” “You’re demons will never leave you.” “Broken, you’re broken.”

Broken. Broken. Broken.

I don’t remember what it’s like to have a normal beating heart. Most people don’t think about it. The way your heart thumps in your chest. Most normal people don’t realize every pump of blood being surged through your body.