In January 2021, I underwent a psychological evaluation. My long-standing pediatrician had finally retired, so I was tasked with pursuing another doctor. Before I could meet with my new physician, a “medication specialist” had to review my medical records to make sure I’d be a good fit for their office.
While she reviewed my file, her brow puckered. She asked me how much Adderall I took daily, even though that information was right in front of her. Hesitantly, I told her: two 30 mg pills in the day, for work, and one 20 mg pill late in the afternoon after I got home, for writing. I knew all those numbers had to be in my file, sans my commentary, but her eyebrows still rose. What she said next blindsided me.
That’s basically meth.
I was at once mortified and petrified. What’s more, I was furious.
I found out I had ADHD the same year my parents divorced. I was seven years old. I’ve been on some form of stimulant ever since. How could the dosage of Adderall that my longtime doctor prescribed be comparable to methamphetamine? That all-time, big-bad drug I’ve known to stay far, far away from. In his never-ending quest to find me the perfect ADHD medication, my doctor explored new “miracle drugs” as they emerged on the market and frequently adjusted my dosage, ultimately settling on my current medication, which had worked well for the past couple of years. Or was that all an illusion?
Now, a complete stranger was telling me that the man I had trusted with my health for most of my life had led me astray. She was asking me to trust her medical expertise, even though I had known my former pediatrician for much longer than her, and she’d just unscientifically, and with the bedside manner of a big toe, told me I was essentially a methhead. (How is saying that even allowed? I know, I know, get your big girl panties on, stop being a snowflake, and stop letting your feelings get hurt so easily. Bleh.)
Her words hovered in the air for an uncomfortable length of time. Eventually, I burst into tears, which doesn’t mean a lot. I’m a crier. Especially so in those days. It took little to send me over the edge. This was in August 2020, around the time that Dad went off the rails. Starting in May or June of that year, my attention was consistently divided between Dad and whatever I had going on in my life. I was a ball of nerves.
I wasn’t even paying attention at this vital doctor’s visit. My phone, according to the medication specialist, was distracting me. The psychometrist she asked me to see a few months later (to verify my ADHD diagnosis) made the same remark about me in my medical records. Both times, it was Dad diverting my focus.
I started eating my stress in earnest a few months after Dad got back from rehab. I put on 40–50 pounds, a pound per worry, or a pound of worry per worry (maybe that only makes sense to me) in just a couple of months.
Gods, I was always worried about Daddy. But I also had to think about myself, and this lady was telling me I might have a problem. I never imagined that this could happen to me—that a lawfully prescribed medication might become addictive. More than anything, I longed to talk to Dad about everything going on. Mom’s great for venting and for helping with just about everything else, but the medical field was Dad’s specialty. I was used to turning to him for medical advice, but he had enough going on in his own life. I worried my current predicament would trigger him, or he’d feel like I was blaming him somehow. So, I kept it to myself.
The psychological evaluation I underwent in January 2021 re-established my ADHD diagnosis as an adult, which was supposedly a requirement for my continued use of Adderall. The medication specialist also requested that I undergo a battery of other tests to make sure my heart would not explode from all the Adderall I’d been taking. At least, that’s what she told me.
Finally, I could start seeing my new doctor, but with an altered regimen of Adderall. Instead of taking two 30 mg pills and one 20 mg pill a day, I’d now be taking two 20 mg pills a day. To get me there, we’d have to wean me off the higher dosage.
That “weaning off” phase was a hellish experience, and it coincided with Dad falling off the wagon and going to rehab.
It took me several months to adjust to my new dosage, and I didn’t handle it very well, but I’ll save that part of the story for another day. Even now, my brain still doesn’t feel like it is working at 100% capacity. I miss who I was back then, but with distance, I can recognize that it was a lot of medication to be on. Sometimes, I debate going off it entirely. I hate how reliant I am on something outside of myself, but how can that be helped if my brain is wired differently?
Also, I can’t help but wonder how things might’ve turned out differently for Dad if I hadn’t been going through all of this just as he was returning from rehab. If I hadn’t been in a mental fog, would I have picked up on the signs more easily? Was I too quick to write off Dad after promising him I wouldn’t give up on him because my mood was all over the place? Or am I just looking for a valid excuse now to make myself feel better?
Most importantly, am I still “addicted” to Adderall, or does my brain need it to function?
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Wow. That’s a lot to unpack. I know nothing about such matters, so I spent a little time online looking for information on Adderall: what’s it’s used for and possible side effects. I think if I were in that position, I would want to find a way to live without it. But that’s just me.
I appreciate your feedback. I should’ve included resources in my post. Honestly, I should have done a bit more research myself, as I don’t even know if what this medication specialist told me is close to accurate. I hesitate to use this analogy, as it’s not a perfect fit and it might rub people the wrong way, but your advice to “live without it” is a bit like telling someone who needs glasses to see to just live without contacts. Or, that’s how it feels to me. I get what you’re trying to say, as amphetamines do have a lot of side effects, many of which only exacerbate my other medical problems, like anxiety. I learned in my Psych 101 class in college that taking drugs like Adderall can change the chemistry or wiring of your brain, so it stops producing certain chemicals itself after a while. (This was one class, and I did no further research, so take that with a grain of salt.) I’ve been on this type of drug for decades, so I do worry that my brain is unrecognizable without it. I know that if I were to go off it completely now, eventually my brain would bounce back. But that could take years, and I don’t know who I’d be in the meantime. Thanks for reading!
Kinsey, I wrote a long detailed response to your last entry on Adderall.I hit send and it said I must sign in. So I did, but then I could not recover my comments. Next time I will write my comments in a separate Word app and save it before pasting it in to your blog site. Sorry, I love you. Papa
Sorry about that, Papa! There’s always a bug somewhere, no matter what I do. It drives me bonkers. When I try fixing one part of the site, a completely different part is somehow negatively affected. Like, when I chose “logging in unnecessary,” the like button disappeared. Or, I tried making it so I wouldn’t have to approve comments before they go live, because people will think their comment didn’t get through if I don’t approve it right away, but then people started saying their comments weren’t showing up at all! My email plug-in didn’t even work the way it was meant to—I manually sent the emails out using MailChimp hours after posting once I realized it hadn’t worked, so you got two emails from me this go around. The first when I posted, which went to your “spam” folder or your “social” folder, then the second one, which finally should have arrived in your main inbox. This site has definitely been a work-in-progress! I wouldn’t blame you for sticking to Facebook for leaving comments. I appreciate you reading my posts and your desire to leave such thoughtful responses. It means so much to me, Papa, and I love you so!