A Defining Disorder

A Defining Disorder

You know that feeling you get when your psychiatrist is talking to your mother behind your back. How about when she’s using words like pathology and abnormal? It’s sort of like being stuck in a bear trap and waiting for the bear to show up. “Jessica, you can come in now.” There’s that bear.

I studied the lines of my psychiatrist’s face: tired and stretched. What does this woman have on me. Sure, she’s old. But no one in America respects elders anymore, it’s all about youth baby. Heck, I should be counseling her: advising her to go out once in a while, maybe find a nice man to date. When it came down to it, I could see no reason to hear her out. Then she said the words.

“You have A.D.H.D.”. Who is she? What in the world is that? Is that a butterfly? Wait, maybe she has a point. I can hate the woman but it’ll only be because I hate the truth. And just like that, my psychiatrist wasn’t a monster anymore. Funny how thinks work out. But what does that make me?

My mom tried to calm me down. I saw her look at me but all I could think about was how diseased I was. Ever since I heard the news it was like a parasite had jumped into my bones and taken a continual dump into my brain. Was I still the same person?

I went philosophical. Does knowledge of self change the self? Is this self concept even rational? After all, aren’t we dynamic beings constantly in flux? Did my parasite pollute my mind?

I went to school and attended my first specialized advising class. There, special care would be taken to ensure that my needs would be met and that I wouldn’t be left behind when the ship left for dock heading toward college, wedding bells, and a career. I looked around the room and expected something resembling those