Anonymous asked: Why is there a stigma surrounding ADHD? Considering it's far reaching almost blanket effect on one's life, and the fact that it impairs the most valuable part of the brain, how would such a stigma even gain traction?
Because ADHD “looks like” moral failure. We’re lazy (actually we’re stuck in whatever we’re doing because inertia and hyperfocus). We’re careless (actually we’re distracted). We’re stupid (actually it takes us longer to process information than one would expect because of how our brains work). We’re unmotivated (well, sometimes we are, but often it’s that inertia and hyperfocus messing us up). We’re self-centred (actually we’re late because there were fifty billiion things that kept catching our attention as we tried to leave for the appointment). We’re thoughtless (actually we’re, again, distracted). We’re disruptive (can’t really argue with that one, but it’s usually not something we’re doing on purpose).
Because ADHDers usually look just like neurotypical people, and because we generally talk the same and act very similarly to neurotypical people, it’s really really difficult for them to even begin to consider that maybe we aren’t morally corrupt and actually have a really legitimate reason for all of the things we do “to mess up their lives.” This leads to all kinds of nasty stereotypes, and that has far-reaching implications: not only do neurotypical people believe and spread all kinds of falsehoods about what ADHD is, many ADHDers believe it as well. So there is resistance to getting diagnosed or revealing a diagnosis.
Add to that the fact that the current best treatment we’ve got is medication, and the distrust many people have of the pharmaceutical industry, and… well… you see where I’m going with this, right?
I bought “Marina" (1999) by Carlos Ruiz Zafón just today! I can’t wait to read it. Bet it’s gonna be as exciting and remarkable as all his books. My love for his books is indescribable.
In May 1980, fifteen-year-old Oscar Drei suddenly vanishes from his boarding school in the old quarter of Barcelona. For seven days and nights no one knows his whereabouts. It all began the previous autumn when, while exploring the dilapidated grounds of what seemed to be an abandoned house filled with portraits, he inadvertently stole a gold pocket watch. Thus begins Oscar’s friendship with Marina and her father Herman Blau, a portrait painter. Marina takes Oscar to the gardens of the nearby cemetery to watch a macabre ritual that occurs on the fourth Sunday of each month. At 10 a.m., a coach drives up to the cemetery and a woman with her face shrouded, wearing gloves, and holding a single rose is helped down from the coach and walks over to a nameless gravestone, where she sets down the flower, pauses for a moment, and then returns to the coach. The gravestone bears no marking but the outline of a strange-looking butterfly with open wings. On one of their subsequent walks Oscar and Marina spot the same woman and determine to follow her. Thereupon begins their journey into the woman’s past, and that of the object of her devotion. It is a journey that takes them to the heights of a forgotten, postwar-Barcelona society, of now aged or departed aristocrats and actresses, inventors and tycoons; and into the depths of the city’s mysterious underground of labyrinthine sewers, corrupt policemen, beggars’ hovels, and criminal depravity.
I couldn’t help thinking that if I, by pure chance, had found a whole universe in a single unknown book, buried in that endless necropolis, tens of thousands more would remain unexplored, forgotten forever. I felt myself surrounded by millions of abandoned pages, by worlds and souls without an owner sinking in an ocean of darkness, while the world that throbbed outside the library seemed to be losing its memory, day after day, unknowingly, feeling all the wiser the more it forgot.
—The Shadow of the Wind, Carlos Ruiz Zafon (via awesem)