As I held the small medication capsules in my hand, a wave of despair washed over me. I felt as if I had lost a significant battle and was now entering a different kind of struggle. With my child’s innocent and trusting gaze fixed on me, I uttered what felt like the most significant untruth of my life, “This is safe. You will be fine. I promise.” Inside, I was tormented by thoughts of betrayal: “Liar! Terrible mother! Failure!”
The day I decided to medicate my child for his ADHD was among the most challenging of my life. For a long time, I had resisted the idea of giving him those pills. I had tried various natural remedies, including eliminating food dyes from his diet, purchasing pricey “natural light” bulbs for our home, and even buying a mini-trampoline for him to expend energy. I had him run laps around the living room in between homework assignments. I read to him, cherished him, and fought tirelessly for his well-being.
My son was reluctant to take the medication. Due to a severe nut allergy, he was especially wary of anything unfamiliar. New foods, restaurants, or sweets were met with immediate resistance. Convincing him to swallow that pill became a battle of wills that I ultimately won after both of us shed tears, exchanged promises and threats, and finally resorted to a bribe.
I assured him it was safe, but deep down, I knew I shouldn’t have made that promise. I had read the research, the potential side effects, and it terrified me. The studies were relatively recent and not specifically conducted on my son. How could I guarantee he wouldn’t be the one to experience adverse reactions? How could I be certain it wouldn’t hinder his brain development at such a critical age? Despite my misgivings, I assured him I knew, and as his mother—his protector—he believed me. He swallowed the pill that day and continued to do so in the days that followed. Each morning, opening that bottle felt like a reminder that I was navigating this journey without full clarity. I monitored him closely for any signs of mood changes, appetite shifts, or sleep disturbances.
He began skipping lunch; he simply wasn’t hungry. Teachers reported he was calmer but not necessarily more focused. He could sit still, but concentration remained elusive. He was less disruptive, but that wasn’t the same as thriving.
On weekends, I refrained from giving him the medication. It may seem irrational, but the tranquil version of my son felt foreign. His vibrant, energetic, and often chaotic nature was what defined him. That quiet, subdued child who lost weight to the point that his doctor recommended increasing his caloric intake was not who I recognized! I couldn’t bear to witness the changes the medication wrought, so I reserved it for school days, avoiding it entirely during weekends and summer.
I continued with the medication for five years. Then, as he entered middle school, he became increasingly vocal about his dislike for the pills. “I want to enjoy lunch again. I don’t like how they make me feel,” he confided.
What had begun as a well-intentioned decision had evolved into a power struggle. Middle school brought frequent parent-teacher meetings as his homework issues persisted. The barrage of emails about him zoning out during class was overwhelming, and it felt as though both of us were unraveling. The nightly homework battles drained our spirits. The joy in our relationship faded as my son’s self-esteem plummeted, and my patience wore thin. Yet, each weekday morning, I handed him the pills, his eyes avoiding mine, his compliance speaking volumes.
The weight of my perceived failures and shame was suffocating. Each visit to the doctor for his prescription refill felt like a crushing reminder of my struggles. I clung to the hope that time might yield positive changes, but after trying four different medications and their myriad side effects, I was left feeling defeated. Each new medication brought another wave of guilt. “Are you sure this one is safe?” he asked, still placing his trust in me. I nodded, but the lies felt easier to tell, while the guilt grew heavier.
Over time, we experienced a shift. My son matured, and we found an alternative school that catered to his learning style. The most significant change, however, was that he no longer took those pills. I finally shed my cloak of guilt.
I share this story to enlighten those who believe that parents who choose to medicate their children do so without difficulty or consideration. The decision to medicate is rarely straightforward, and I would challenge anyone to find a parent who hasn’t grappled with it. This account aims to provide insight into this often-painful journey and implores readers to extend kindness to those parents facing similar choices. For some, medication is transformative; for others, like me, it offered some relief but not the life-altering change we hoped for. For still others, it might yield no benefits at all, leaving them back at square one.
Please be compassionate and avoid judgment. May you never face a decision where you must promise your child something uncertain.
For more insights on parenting challenges and decisions, feel free to check out our other posts here.
In conclusion, the decision to medicate a child with ADHD can be fraught with emotional turmoil and uncertainty. It is essential to approach this choice with care, empathy, and a willingness to explore all options available.