Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Another Diagnosis

So, I have ADD.
At least it would explain a lot. This morning during my microbiology techniques class, somewhere in the middle of his lecture on the myriad uses of caenorhabditis elegans, my teacher looked up at me and burst out to my and the classes surprise -- "Would you stop playing around with your ****ing phone?" he said in frustration, looking at me. Sheepishly I apologized and put the phone away.
I don't mention the professor by name, because I like him. His outburst is a reflection only on his proclivity to outburst, and not on his quality as a professor. Furthermore, I can't blame him. I felt bad; Not terrible. While I caused the eruption, I also asked the most questions in class and felt very involved. What was so important I had to have my phone out for?
I was discussing the merits of the newest generation of Pokemon with my friend James.
My mother has told me many a time that had I been born into any other family, I would have been drugged. I believe her.
In grade 1, I was put in a separate desk behind the rest of the class. During a parent teacher conference, my parents asked why I was so far removed. My teacher explained it was because of my tendency to tip my desk over, crashing to the floor.
When I was in grade 7, a teacher I will always love -- because she read us The Hobbit even when we were "too old" to have stories read to us -- took me aside to talk with me.
Mme White wanted to talk about my constant disruptions. I told her, as I had told many people before, that I was bored. Either I knew what was being taught, or I had no interest in it. She taught me to draw when I was bored, and focus my attention on a secondary activity. This has served me well over the years, and I should probably stick to notebook rather than cell phone activities in my graduate level courses.
If you're talking to me, know that my mind is wandering. Don't take it the wrong way, and know that I'll wander back. I'm still storing what you're saying, and I'll process it when my tandem is done, but my thoughts don't travel in trains -- they're more like kangaroos.
Ultimately, this little 'handicap' of mine has hindered me little in my waltz through life. I'm now working on my doctoral research and I feel like I have accomplished much, including becoming an OK cook, priest, husband, and picking up a few languages. My mother's balance of tolerance and strictness guided me through piano lessons and to my eagle scout, and I feel great.
What if I had been born into another family?
What if I had been drugged?
As Mormons, we eschew any mind altering substances whenever possible. (Obviously some medicinal drugs have their place for which I'm grateful.) It seems obvious to me why we have this policy. Man has a long history of "solving" it's problems with substances. With the first lager brewed thousands of years BC, it's long been one of our favorite pastimes.
My dad has two doctorates, one in a traditional medicine field, and one in a more homeopathic variety. He has explained the difference to me like this: If a rubber band is tight on your finger and hurting it, traditional medicine will give you painkillers to stop the pain, and homeopathy will teach you how to remove the rubber band. Some rubber bands can't easily be removed, so both disciplines have their place, but the central distinction remains crucial.
Man would, historically, rather solve it's problems with a patch than find the source of the problem. It is an easier fix, one which doesn't require us to change who we are and how we act.
I apologize openly to my parents, family, many teachers, church leaders, wife, and future acquaintances for this, one of the many diagnoses that make me me.
Gratefully, I know none of my friends would want to change this about me. I struggle to concentrate, people care about me, and we somehow work through solving human problems in human ways, rather than with substances.
I know how incredibly odd and intensely strange many of the world's great figures were - Winston Churchill; Albert Einstein; Ernest Hemingway.
How many Churchills, Einsteins, & Hemingways are we snuffing out of our generation in our efforts to help them be more... normal? A concerning thought.

No comments:

Post a Comment