I cradled the small pills in my palm and felt my resolve crumble. I was no longer fighting against the world; I was now entrenched in a new battle. Looking into my son’s innocent eyes, I uttered what felt like the most profound untruth: “This is safe. You’ll be fine. I promise.” Yet inside, I was screaming, “Liar! Terrible mother! What a failure!”
The day I decided to medicate my son for his ADHD marked one of my most challenging moments as a parent. For a long time, I had resisted the idea of giving him medication. I had explored every natural alternative available. I eliminated food dyes from our meals, invested in pricey “natural light” bulbs for our kitchen, and even bought a mini-trampoline for him to expend his energy. I encouraged him to run laps around our living room during homework breaks, read to him every night, and showered him with love and support.
My son was apprehensive about taking the pills. With a severe nut allergy, he was cautious about anything unfamiliar. Whether it was food, a new restaurant, or even candy, he was hesitant to try anything new. Convincing him to swallow that pill turned into a contest of wills—one that I eventually won after tears (from both of us), promises, threats, and ultimately, a bribe.
I told him it was safe, yet deep down, I knew I couldn’t guarantee that. I had researched the side effects, and the findings frightened me. The studies were merely two decades old and not conducted on my child. How could I be sure he wouldn’t be that one child to have a negative reaction? What if this medication hindered his brain development during such a crucial time? How could I know it would be effective?
Despite my doubts, I promised him I was certain. As his mother and protector, he placed his trust in me. He swallowed the pill that day and continued to do so in the days that followed. Each morning as I opened that bottle was a reminder that I was navigating motherhood in the dark. I watched him closely for any shifts in mood, appetite, sleep—anything. He stopped eating lunch; he just wasn’t hungry. Teachers reported he was calmer, but not more focused. He could sit still, but his ability to concentrate didn’t improve. For the most part, he was no longer disruptive.
On weekends, I refrained from giving him the medication. I hated seeing him so subdued. I know it sounds irrational, but my son is supposed to be vibrant, lively, and sometimes maddeningly chaotic, which often left me exasperated. That quiet, tranquil boy—who had grown so thin that his doctor advised us to increase his caloric intake—wasn’t my son! I couldn’t bear the transformation I witnessed due to the medication, so I restricted it to school days.
I continued with the medication for five years until he reached middle school. At that point, he became more vocal about his reluctance to take his medication. “I want to enjoy lunch. I don’t like how these make me feel,” he expressed.
Here I was, compelling my son to take medication while he begged me to stop. Middle school became a flurry of parent-teacher conferences because he still struggled with his schoolwork. The daily emails about his lack of focus and drifting attention were overwhelming. I felt myself breaking, and so did he. Our nightly battles over homework drained both of us. The joy in our relationship had vanished. His self-esteem plummeted, my patience evaporated, and we were both suffering. Yet, each weekday morning, I handed him the pills, knowing he would return home from school with a full lunchbox. He took the pills without making eye contact, his compliance speaking volumes more than his defiance ever could.
My feelings of failure and shame made my skin itch and my stomach churn. Each visit to the doctor for his three-month prescription renewal was a crushing reminder of my struggles. I clung to the hope that time might bring change, that perhaps a new medication could offer relief. We tried four different drugs, each presenting its own set of distressing side effects. The morning I introduced each new medication was another notch in my guilt belt. “Are you sure this one is okay?” he’d ask, still trusting me. I nodded, the lies spilling from my lips more easily, but the guilt weighed heavier.
Eventually, circumstances shifted for us. My son matured, and we discovered an alternative school that catered to his unique learning style and pace. The most significant change, however, was that he no longer needed to take those pills. My burden of guilt was lifted.
I share this story for those who believe that parents like me easily choose to medicate their children. We don’t come to this decision lightly; it’s not that we’ve been brainwashed or failed to try hard enough. Medicating a child is a profound struggle, and I would challenge anyone to find a parent who hasn’t wrestled with this choice. This narrative serves as a glimpse into our turmoil and a plea for compassion towards those confronting such tough decisions. For some, medication is life-altering and the best choice possible. For others, including myself, it provided some benefits but fell short of being the transformative solution I had hoped for.
Be kind, refrain from judgment, and may you never find yourself in a position where you have to make a promise to your child that you are uncertain you can keep.
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In summary, the journey of a mother navigating the complexities of ADHD medication is fraught with emotional turmoil and difficult choices. The decision to medicate is rarely straightforward, and it deserves understanding and empathy from others who may not share the same experience.
Keyphrase: ADHD medication struggle
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