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YOU TELL ME I THINK DIFFERENTLY

You tell me I think differently, and I don’t know how to tell you that my mind is like an ocean. You talk about picnics, but I don’t understand how anyone could pin a blanket down onto the moving surface of these waves. I’m drenched and I’m cold and I’m drowning. Where is the shore? Where is the firm land beneath my feet that everyone else seems to call home? This ocean is mine––if there were any buildings here their foundations would have crumbled long ago into the sea. I’m tired and I’m shipwrecked and there’s only so much oxygen left in my lungs.

You talk of mountains and forests and sweeping plains but all I know is this great expanse of water. Sometimes it’s kind. Sometimes it carries me like a mother and lets me touch the sky. But sometimes it turns on me, pushes me under, steals my sandcastles and crushes them back into grains, swallows my air and stings my eyes. Can you show me how to break it? How to curb the currents, how to build levees and dams, how to control this ocean in my skull?

You tell me I think differently, and I laugh because it’s true, but the tears on my face taste too like the saltwater I’ve been drowning in these past nineteen years for me to tell you why.


— By having ADHD, I have learnt that the road will be long, I will trip many times, and I will

gather as many scars mental, as I possess physically. But I have also learnt that if I keep

sailing through my hardships, I will eventually find my own way to keep wind in my sails, at

some point in time during my story. There is always rain before there is sunshine. I beg you to try to hold on through the storms until the clouds shift and the wind calms so that you can

dance in the sunlight again. I promise you; you will dance again. I just can't tell you exactly when.

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