What do I think about when I brush my teeth? Not much. Usually, it takes me about 10 minutes, not because I’m intensely into dental hygiene but because I get distracted pretty quickly. Instagram reels, brushing my hair, and the radio if I’m feeling adventurous. This isn’t a lament on my technology usage, although that probably needs addressing. 

 

Back to the point. What do I think about when I brush my teeth? If you haven’t noticed, I picked the first prompt. No, my attention span isn’t normally that bad. And yes, I know this is being submitted late. I’m so close to the deadline; please, please, please keep reading. 

 

In case you hadn’t guessed, I’m pretty riddled with ADHD. Let’s talk about it.

 

Sob story time. I was diagnosed with ADHD a month before my A-levels. My two younger brothers, who chronically misbehaved at school, had been diagnosed more than a decade earlier. Every school report frequently lamented, “Flora is so bright. She just keeps making silly mistakes. She just needs to concentrate more.” My insomnia was misdiagnosed as restless leg syndrome when I was 15 and chalked up to an iron deficiency (I’m a blonde vegetarian; what did you expect?) There were years of school holidays spent in bed with tonsilitis, sinusitis, and even suspected meningitis—because, yes, I’ve always thought I could do everything. But it took until I was repeatedly sick with burnout (and mono) to get a diagnosis just three weeks before my A-levels started. Cliché number one: I’m an extenuating circumstances kind of girl.

 

I don’t want to talk about how hard life is having ADHD though (although I would like to make a serious apology to my editor. The second draft is two weeks late—I’m definitely not making her life easier!) I want to talk about how the system makes everything just that little bit harder than it needs to be.

 

Last year, there was a nationwide medication shortage that lasted over six months. I eventually stopped taking medication altogether as finding the correct dosage, or even the proper medication and a GP who would prescribe it became impossible. I think the most I ever explored Oxford was cycling to Boots in Retail Park, Oxford—a more than 10-mile round trip on my bicycle (you can check; I put it on Strava)—to try and find a dispensary. Did the university help? Maybe I could have talked to my tutor, but what’s there to say? I can’t get the right medication and might not for months, but please give me a free pass—not exactly what Oxford tutors love to hear.  But the shortage is over now, so if your only takeaway so far is that I have Ritalin, you’d be right. (No, it’s not for sale, but come find me at launch; I could be persuaded). 

 

Cliché number two: I’m such a procrastinator; life’s so hard; pick me, choose me. But I am. I really am. And I do History, the subject with the spectacular one tutorial, one deadline a week situation. I’m such a procrastinator that I’m convinced that all the extracurriculars in the world wouldn’t impact my degree because I couldn’t start my reading any earlier if I wanted to (I’m delusional, I know).

 

I’m great with deadlines, though. 5pm on Monday, and it’ll be in on time. But “I need the draft by next Monday or Tuesday. Would that work?” and I’m a goner (editors, please take notes). It’s currently 10:24pm on a Monday night. I’m writing the second draft of this piece, which was due a week ago because I promised I’d have it done tonight after cancelling our meeting twice. I’ve got a presentation due at 9am tomorrow. I haven’t started the background reading for last week’s class or even the primary sources this module is on. Nor am I intending to any time soon. There are plenty of other emails to be sent before I’d even think about the degree (Please, no one show this piece to Fanny or Steve). And yes, I know everyone has essay crises here. But this isn’t a crisis. This isn’t even stressful (yet). This is just what it takes every day to make stuff happen.

 

Somehow, I make it to exam season. Cliché number three: I get extra time—which I should be grateful for, right? According to Oxfess 23172, ‘Extra-time for non-acute issues should be banned’. I sat my collection yesterday with an extra 45 minutes on a three-hour exam. I didn’t start writing for an hour. I wrote a list of excuses in my head—I couldn’t concentrate? The exam paper wasn’t the one I expected? I couldn’t pick a question? Think of anything to say?—The real answer is I don’t know, (but if I had extra time, I’m sure I could figure it out.)****

 

**** And exams are handwritten. I used to scribble everything I’d forgotten into the margins until I was told explicitly by a tutor that it makes you look worse and disorganised—tutors will mark you down. 

 

And I’m not great with spelling. When sitting in the HAT entrance exam for Oxford, I had to call the examiner over to ask how I spelt Somerville. “I really shouldn’t be helping you, but I think it’s a single, not a double”. Bless, he thought I meant the “m”. After crossing out various renditions of Soumerville, Sommerville, Sumervile, and so on, I think I went with Summerville in the end. The point is that the history department should have known what they were getting in for. Yet, I’ve been repeatedly told by tutors that it is fundamentally disrespectful that I haven’t learnt how to spell Historians’ names. Look, I get where you’re coming from (and for 19th-century Victorian history, they really were all called John), but there really isn’t much I can do, especially in an exam, under pressure—yes, even with all that extra time Oxfess. ­­­­

 

Those who know me might be surprised to read this, given how much I tend to get done. Yes, I make shit happen. But this isn’t an ‘ADHD is my superpower’, or ADHD is my hurdle to overcome. ADHD is just my life. But the unforgiving tutors, the failures to recognise ADHD symptoms, especially for women, the lack of understanding about what ADHD means and how it impacts people, beyond those ‘clichés,’ make every day a little more difficult. I know what accommodations could help, but this isn’t a quick fix with medication or extra time. Attitudes need to change, and social conventions and perceptions need to shift. We need a little more empathy—let’s keep talking about it.∎

 

Words by Flora Prideaux. Image courtesy of Tara Winstead.