What people see, and what they don’t

ADHD stands for Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder.

That’s the official name. It doesn’t really capture what living with it feels like, but I understand the label: attention issues and hyperactivity are the most visible parts.

When I was a child, my teachers used to tell my mother during parent–teacher meetings that I was always “zoned out.” That I seemed somewhere else. Today, my friends call me Cloud, because I never quite feel here. My boyfriend often tells me that I look like I’m on another planet, and it’s not an exaggeration. If anything, I spend more time on other planets than on Earth, and I don’t like it.

My mind feels like it’s constantly switching channels, thought after thought, without any remote to control it. More often than not, I don’t choose my thoughts. They choose me.

That lack of control isn’t only mental, it’s physical too.

The hardest situations for me are the ones where I’m expected to sit still with no way out. Waiting in administrative offices. Being stuck in a car. Or worse, on a plane. When my body has no option to move, my entire system starts to feel trapped.

I need motion. I need stimulation. I need something to fidget.

So, to anyone who has ever had to sit next to me on a flight, I’m sorry. I will move. I’ll touch my hair, adjust my clothes, play with objects, do my makeup, anything. Anything except sitting still.

Because sitting still, for me, isn’t neutral. It’s unbearable.

But my attention problems and my hyperactivity are not the real disorder, they are the visible part of the iceberg. What’s actually broken runs deeper than that. The real disorder is regulation.

Regulation is what’s supposed to keep things in balance: thoughts, emotions, energy, movement, action. When it doesn’t work properly, everything comes in at once. I can be reading a message and suddenly remember something I forgot to do, notice a sound in the room, feel the urge to move, think about something unrelated, all at the same time. None of it is chosen. None of it waits its turn.

My thoughts interrupt each other. My emotions react before I’ve had time to place them. My body moves before I’ve decided it should. Starting something feels like pushing against an invisible wall, and stopping feels just as difficult, because there’s no clear signal telling me when to begin or when to let go.

Living like this is exhausting.

Not in a dramatic way, but in a constant, low-grade way. The kind of tiredness that comes from having to monitor yourself all the time.

I’m always adjusting. Slowing myself down. Speeding myself up. Trying to look normal. Trying to stay present. Trying not to drift too far, or react too fast.

And over time, that constant self-regulation turns into fatigue. And sometimes, into shame.

Because when you’re tired all the time, it’s easy to assume the problem is you. That you’re lazy. Unreliable. Too much. Not enough. You start questioning things that were never the issue to begin with.

What people don’t see is that this tiredness doesn’t come from doing nothing.

It comes from compensating, all day long, for what my brain fails at.

_{Edward Hopper, Automat (1927). Oil on canvas.}

^{Edward Hopper. All rights reserved. Image reproduced for editorial and illustrative purposes.}

In the next article, I’ll dive into ADHD from a neurological and scientific perspective, focusing on how the ADHD brain works. More articles will follow as part of this series, ADHD from the inside.

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Disclaimer: This text reflects a personal and informational perspective and is not a diagnosis. Only a qualified healthcare professional can diagnose ADHD. If you have concerns or questions about ADHD, please seek advice from a medical professional.