My 19-year-old son with ADHD/anxiety is in a pretty healthy routine working full-time as a food runner at a chain restaurant. He has a renewed sense of purpose after the disaster that was moving out to go to college full time without an idea of what he wanted to do. I suppose in retrospect (which I am barely able to see a year out from said disaster), we have learned a lot of lessons about what is realistic about expectations and working as a family to get him where he needs to go, wherever that might be. 

When J got diagnosed with ADHD in fourth grade, the first medication the pediatrician put him on was a stimulant, which, it is my understanding, is a normal first step. He had a reaction to the medicine … his first panic attack, we would later learn … and he was then put on guanfacine. At the time, it wasn’t approved for ADHD and we were paying exorbitant prices for this medication since it wasn’t covered by insurance and the powers-that-be at the insurance company wouldn’t make an exception for him, even though his doctors and myself attempted every possible route. Without GoodRx and the occasional loan from my parents, we wouldn’t have made it through that time. We simply couldn’t afford the out-of-pocket cost. 

As he continued down this road of ADHD, an incredible nurse practitioner who had ADHD and had studied it for 25 years, correctly diagnosed him with anxiety along with the ADHD in around 7th grade when he seemed very unhappy and unable to function. I will never forget her explaining it to me as, “These fish all swim in the same direction.” It was a Godsend at the time, and so was she. (She got let go during the pandemic and decided to retire. It was a major loss for us.) She also got him on Focalin before high school, which helped him do well in school … well enough to graduate and get a scholarship to Bradley University. Of course we had issues, but J managed himself well in school. He was in a good routine, used his in-school time very wisely … his main issue was when schoolwork required time out of school. He tried to keep home and school very separate, and was, for the most part, successful.

He was so excited about college. We were so excited. It was scary, but it was a rite of passage that every kid goes through, right? Turns out it was much scarier than originally thought. J didn’t know what he was in for in regard to keeping up with eating and laundry and classes and homework and just getting from point A to point B, etc., and continuing to take his medication to keep him on track. It was too much. He promptly got sick. He missed class. He didn’t understand it. Going with the flow was never his specialty. He needed help. He didn’t want help. He believed he was seeing everyone else succeeding, which seemed to magnify what he deemed as his “failure.” (Everything has always been very black and white with J.) 

I started getting calls daily from my son crying in anguish about being stupid and worthless and wanting to kill himself. He would take these calls in his car in the parking garage at school so he could scream and cry and rant and rave, feeling unmoored and unable to survive. Hating himself so much, and everyone else. “Why shouldn’t I jump off this parking garage?! Why shouldn’t I?” I just talked. I just talked and talked and talked. I was glad he was calling me. I felt helpless. I wanted to run and hide and cry and sleep. I didn’t know what to do. How could I? I always have felt capable in my life, but during this time, I just truly wasn’t sure if I would make it; if I could help. I answered the phone, I listened, I loved him, I drove up to the college many times to see him, to hold him when he was crying, to take him out to lunch, to try and right his ship. I called the school multiple times … they knew he had ADHD and anxiety; thanks to his incredible guidance counselor in high school, I did all the necessary planning and paperwork. I was shocked by the lack of support both he and myself received from the school. I realize freshmen are the lowest priority and many don’t succeed, but the lack of care and concern was appalling and disheartening. I got no help from the school. Neither did he. I prayed and prayed and prayed for strength, relief, guidance, for help, for Jack, for relief, for relief, for relief for both of us. For all of us. Nothing. One hit after another after another. I’ve never felt more abandoned by God. Jack says he’s felt abandoned by God for awhile now. I’m not sure he will ever find his way back. I can’t say I blame him.

At the culmination of this, he spent an entire week in his bed, so depressed, he didn’t leave his room; didn’t leave his bed. No one checked on him at the school. His roommate ignored him. His teachers ignored him. His RA ignored him. The student services department ignored him. He literally was disappearing and no one at that school cared. No. One. We talked every night. He wanted to stay. He wanted to do it. He wanted to succeed, but he couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed. I begged him to come home. Finally, I told him he was coming home during our call and told him he had a choice: Either Dad and I were coming to get him or he was driving home, but it was happening that day. Leave your stuff. We’ll come back for it. Just get home. Don’t worry about anything, just come home. You have clothes here. You have everything you need here.

After hours on the phone, he climbed out of that bed, got in his car, and came home. “It’s the least I can do,” he said. I’ve never been more proud of him. I tracked him on my family app all the way home, praying that he made it safely. Praying that he didn’t turn around. Helpless. Completely helpless.

I will never forget when his car parked in front of our house and he opened the door and got out sobbing. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry.” 

“You have nothing to be sorry about. I’m so glad you’re home and you’re safe.” 

He went to community college for the spring semester. He decided to take the next semester off. Maybe not go to college. Maybe go to college when he has a better idea of his goal. For now, we are taking it a day at a time. He had decided to go off his anxiety meds because he doesn’t like the nausea it gives him. We are monitoring it … we don’t want him to, but he needs to live a life that is sustainable for him as a grown up, and us forcing him to take his meds every day isn’t an option. It just isn’t sustainable. Right now, things are moving in the right direction. We’re healing. Maybe not healing, but our scars are fading a bit, anyway. There’s hope, I think. I’m cautiously optimistic. I’m also scared and unsure and not confident. But I will always try and be the best mom that I can be for this kid. Because he is special and beautiful and kind and amazing and broken and sad and lost and cynical, and he is mine.