I stood there, clutching those tiny pills, feeling my heart crumble. The fight against them was over, but a new battle lay ahead. With my son’s innocent, trusting eyes fixed on me, I uttered a promise I doubted: “This is safe. You’ll be just fine, I swear.” Inside, a voice screamed, “Liar! Terrible mother! You’ve failed!”
The day I decided to medicate my son for his ADHD was one of the toughest moments I’ve ever faced. I had resisted giving him those pills for so long. I had tried everything from cutting out artificial food colors to investing in fancy “natural light” bulbs for our kitchen. I bought a mini-trampoline for him to bounce on, coaxing him into running laps around our living room in between homework questions. I read stories, showered him with love, and fought tooth and nail for him.
When it came time to take the pills, he was terrified. With a severe nut allergy, he was incredibly cautious about trying anything new. If he hadn’t tasted it before, it was a no-go. Getting him to swallow that pill was a battle of wills that involved tears (from both of us), promises, and even a bribe.
I told him it was safe, but deep down, I questioned that assurance. I had read the research and the potential side effects, and it terrified me. Most of it was only a couple of decades old and not tested on my son. What if he was the one kid who had an adverse reaction? What if it impacted his developing brain because I was pushing these pills into him at such a young age?
And yet, I promised him I knew best. As his mom — his protector — he believed me. He swallowed the pills, day after day. Each morning, as I opened that bottle, it reminded me that I was navigating this journey blindfolded. I scrutinized his mood, appetite, and sleep for any changes. He stopped eating lunch altogether; he just wasn’t hungry. Teachers began to mention that he seemed calmer, but not more focused. He could sit still, but concentration was still a struggle. Most of the time, he wasn’t a disruption.
On weekends, I opted not to give him the pills. I hated seeing him subdued. I know it sounds wild, but my son is supposed to be vibrant, wild, loud, and yes, sometimes he drives me to the brink of insanity with frustration. But that’s him! That calm child who had grown so thin that his doctor urged me to find ways to get him to consume more calories? That wasn’t my son! I couldn’t bear witness to the changes the medication caused, so I reserved the pills for school days only.
Five years passed with this routine. Then, middle school arrived, and he became more vocal about his resistance to the medication. “I want to enjoy lunch. I don’t like how this makes me feel,” he confessed.
Suddenly, I found myself forcing him to take medication while he pleaded with me to stop. Middle school was filled with endless parent-teacher meetings because he still struggled with his schoolwork. Overwhelmed by daily emails about his lack of focus, I felt myself breaking. The nightly homework battles drained us both. Our relationship was devoid of joy. His self-esteem plummeted, my patience evaporated, and we were both suffering. Yet every weekday morning, I handed him those pills as he averted my gaze, silently complying.
The shame and feeling of failure weighed heavily on me, making my skin crawl and my stomach churn. Each visit to the doctor for a refill of his three-month prescription felt crushing. I kept hoping that time would bring change, that perhaps a new medication might help. We tried four different ones, each introducing its own set of nightmarish side effects. As I handed him each new pill, I felt guilt tighten around my chest. “Are you sure this one is safe?” he’d ask, still trusting me. I would nod, lying more easily now, but the guilt grew heavier.
Our situation eventually transformed for several reasons. He matured, and we discovered an alternative school that catered to his unique learning style and pace. The most significant change? He no longer takes those pills, and I’ve shed the guilt that once cloaked me.
I share my story to shed light on the struggles of parents who choose to medicate their children. It’s not an easy choice, and I challenge anyone to find a parent who doesn’t wrestle with this decision. I urge everyone to approach these parents with kindness and understanding. For some, medication is a game changer. For others, like me, it offered some relief but didn’t provide the monumental shift I envisioned. And for some, it may lead them back to square one.
Let’s be gentle, reserve our judgments, and hope no one has to face the daunting choice of making promises to their child that they’re unsure they can keep.
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In summary, navigating the world of ADHD medication is not straightforward. Every parent faces their fears and challenges, and it’s essential to approach their choices with compassion and understanding.