Divorce and Adhd - Personal Essay

Divorce is defined by Merriam Webster’s Dictionary as the “the complete separation of two things”, a rather simple interpretation of an event that still impacts my life on a daily basis. It’s just now that I am beginning to process how much.

I was in 5th grade when my 2 brothers and I were summoned to the sofa to have “the talk”. Mom sat on the sofa with us, very quiet, while dad sat opposite the four of us. He calmly told us they were getting divorced and that he would be moving out. It all seemed quite simple, and within two weeks of the announcement he was gone.

There was a calmness in the house after he left. It’s hard to describe but the home became more welcoming. Friends began coming over on a regular basis. We played, we laughed, we yelled, and for the most part we were happy. We saw our father one day every other week. He was already in a new relationship and was beginning to slowly drift out of our lives.

Right around my tenth birthday , I was diagnosed with ADHD. My 5th grade teachers were telling my mom that I was fidgeting, falling out of my chair, and acting impulsively. It was starting to impact me socially and academically. I went and met with a psychiatrist who gave me the diagnosis and I also began seeing a therapist on a regular basis. I began taking medication daily and after several months the dosage felt right and slowly I noticed changes at school.

Because I was old enough to understand the divorce, to understand that my dad was “in love” with someone else while still being married to my mom, to figure out that we were probably going to have to move out of our house, and that all this was completely out of my control I became very angry and often acted out at home. I remember seeing the fear and confusion on my brothers faces when I would go into a rage. When my ADHD medication wore off at night, I became a version of myself that scared me and that I couldn’t prevent from happening. I remember my mother describing it in detail to my therapist while I sat looking at the ceiling pretending I didn’t care.

Only I did care, in my mind I was the man of the house now. How could I show weakness and tell my mom how bad I was hurting? She had enough to deal with. She worked hard to keep a roof over our head, food on our table while still managing to get us to every single practice and game on time and cheer for us. So I swallowed the pain for years. I continued to see the therapist, promised to work on strategies but