I knew I was different by the time I was twelve.
I didn’t have language for it then. Neurodivergent wasn’t a word I had ever heard, and no one around me talked about brains that worked differently. I just knew—quietly, intuitively—that my mind did not operate the way other people’s seemed to.
I noticed it in how I thought, how intensely I felt, how fast my words came out, how deeply I reacted to things other people brushed off. I lived with a constant sense of being out of sync with the world, like I was always half a step off no matter how hard I tried to adjust.
It wasn’t until I was a young adult that I even suspected there might be a name for it.
And it wasn’t until 2013–2014, when I finally began seeing a psychologist and psychiatrist, that I received a diagnosis.
By then, a lot had already happened.
The Labels That Come Before the Truth
Before the age of eighteen, I was diagnosed as bipolar.
In hindsight, it was an assumption built on family history rather than a full understanding of my experience. My father was bipolar, and I had significant anger issues. What no one recognized at the time was that what I was experiencing wasn’t bipolar disorder—it was emotional dysregulation related to ADHD. Today, we understand this more clearly. Back then, there was no language for it.
At eighteen, the diagnosis shifted again: clinical depression and generalized anxiety. I was treated for both—repeatedly, over many years. Those treatments helped some symptoms, but never all of them. Something essential was always left untouched.
When I was eventually diagnosed with ADD—what we now understand as ADHD, Predominantly Inattentive Presentation—I was shocked.
Like many people, I believed ADHD looked one way. I wasn’t physically hyper. I wasn’t bouncing off walls. I thought, That can’t be me. I wanted to accept the diagnosis, but I didn’t understand it. It also clashed directly with the identity I had built: the disciplined one, the perfectionist, the person who held everything together through sheer force of will.
That identity came at a cost I didn’t yet understand.
What Gets Internalized When You’re Missed
Growing up, I was called many things.
Dramatic.
Too sensitive.
You talk too fast.
You talk too much.
Weird.
You wear your heart on your sleeve.
You’re overthinking.
Just calm down.
You worry too much.
Why are you always late?
There were jokes at my expense. I want to be clear: those jokes were never intended to harm me. I love the people who said them. This is not about blame.
But intent does not erase impact.
Over time, those words formed a belief I carried quietly for years: I am a burden.
That belief shaped how I treated myself, how I tried to control myself, and how much space I believed I was allowed to take in the world.
Control as Survival
My earliest attempts at control started young.
I hurt myself—privately, quietly, in ways meant not to be seen. It began around age ten and evolved over time. The pain gave me something solid, something I could control when everything else felt overwhelming and wrong.
Later, that need for control changed form.
In high school, I developed anorexia. I was already small by nature—five foot two, one hundred pounds. At my lowest, I weighed eighty-eight pounds. I survived that chapter, thankfully, but it left its imprint.
After that, I didn’t stop trying to control myself. I refined the strategy.
I became hyper-observant. I studied my peers. I mimicked behaviors. I worked relentlessly to stay out of the spotlight. I chased perfection in grades, in discipline, in learning, and especially in my art. I was in advanced classes. I pushed myself constantly.
And still, I failed often.
Not because I wasn’t capable—but because I was trying to function in a world that wasn’t built for how my mind worked.
The Cost of Being “High-Functioning”
This is where many late-diagnosed women live.
Capable. Intelligent. Creative. Responsible.
And profoundly exhausted.
I always felt like the outcast. Like I made everything more complicated than it needed to be. My mind didn’t move in straight lines—it moved laterally, expansively, differently. Just as I thought I was understanding myself and the world, I felt like I missed the mark entirely.
Being “high-functioning” didn’t protect me.
It delayed understanding.
The Fear of Treatment
When I was diagnosed with ADD/ADHD, I refused treatment.
I had seen others treated for ADHD. They went from expressive and charismatic to flat and robotic. I didn’t want to lose my oddities, my theatric personality, the parts of me that felt alive.
But deeper than that was a fear I rarely admitted: that medication would kill my creativity.
Art is not optional for me. It is as necessary as breathing. It is how I process the world, how I survive it, how I make meaning. The idea of losing that felt unbearable.
So I lived with the chaos instead.
What Understanding Changed
Diagnosis didn’t fix my life overnight. Medication didn’t either.
What changed first was internal.
I stopped seeing myself as broken.
I came to understand that my brain was never meant to fit neatly into boxes—and that trying to force it to do so was costing me more than it gave. Burn the box. God didn’t create me to shrink myself into something palatable.
Yes, I talk a lot. I still don’t love that about myself. But it’s okay. I’ve met people who accept me as I am. I am deeply honest—sometimes uncomfortably so. That trait is rare, and I no longer see it as something to apologize for.
Flaws don’t disqualify us. They keep us human. They keep us humble. They keep us growing.
I am good with being a weirdo who thinks for herself, speaks up for the lost and broken, and will stand alone if that’s what it takes to shield others from harm.
Medication, Revisited
Eventually, with understanding and agency, I tried medication again.
It took three different medications and careful adjustment to find the right one at the right dosage.
What happened surprised me.
It didn’t dull my creativity.
It didn’t flatten my personality.
It slowed my thoughts just enough for me to choose where they went.
For the first time, I could focus and expand my creativity instead of drowning in it. I didn’t lose myself. I gained coherence.
I have never felt so whole.
When Someone Finally Asked the Right Question
Earlier this year, my psychiatrist asked me something no one else ever had.
“Are we even sure you have anxiety or depression?”
I was completely taken aback.
She explained that recent research shows that for some people with ADHD, symptoms that look like anxiety and depression are not separate disorders at all. They are secondary—caused by years of unmanaged ADHD, chronic overwhelm, emotional dysregulation, and constant internal pressure to function in a world that doesn’t match the brain.
In other words, the anxiety and depression can be symptoms, not the root.
Together, we made a careful decision to remove the anxiety and depression medications and treat the ADHD directly.
The result still amazes me.
I am now only on ADHD medication.
I am not on anxiety medication.
I am not on depression medication.
It has been nine months.
I have had no clinical anxiety.
No depressive episodes.
For the first time in my adult life, I am not managing multiple medications just to survive the day. The relief is not just physical—it is emotional and psychological. There is deep gratitude in finally treating the cause instead of endlessly patching the fallout.
I feel profoundly blessed to work with a psychiatrist who stays current with research, genuinely cares about her patients, and was willing to challenge long-held assumptions—and then walk the journey with me instead of dictating it.
That kind of care matters.
If you would like her information, I am happy to share it:
Nesting Minds Psychiatry
📞 (817) 660-7692
📍 3256 Lackland Rd., Suite D
Fort Worth, TX 76116
Telehealth available
I will not work with anyone else while she is in practice.
Why Late Diagnosis in Women Matters
Late diagnosis does not mean the condition was mild.
It often means the woman was exceptionally good at surviving.
Many of us were misdiagnosed, overlooked, or told our struggles were character flaws. We learned to mask, to self-punish, to disappear, to overachieve. The cost was paid internally.
Understanding doesn’t erase the past—but it rewrites the story we tell ourselves about it.
And sometimes, that rewrite is the beginning of healing.
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