When I swallow the white tablet and the dexamphetamine enters my body, it journeys through my blood until it flows to my brain. There, it creates more neurotransmitters like dopamine and serotonin, so I can get satisfaction from the ordinary things I’d otherwise ignore or forget.
It’s a tiny thing, smaller than my fingernail: the pill that arrives in a metallic bowl— presented then taken away. Worn hands twist the cap back onto the smooth plastic bottle, which is swathed with my prescription. Severe, Sans-Serif font reads SCHEDULE 8—CONTROLLED DRUG—POSSESSION WITHOUT AUTHORITY ILLEGAL—KEEP OUT OF REACH OF CHILDREN. Ironic, considering I was only a child when I started taking it.
Late at night, after the sun has gone down and the pill has worn off, I pace my room. Mechanical footsteps march around the cramped, messy space. The textures of carpet and hardwood floor under my feet irk me as I try to relax, try to distract my mind from its darkest worries. It never works.
That day, I had read in The Conversation that half the psychologists assessing for ADHD do not follow diagnostic guidelines (O’Toole, 2026). I think back to the little white pill; I always do. How much is it really helping me? If the article is true, and the psychologist that assessed me five years ago didn’t check properly, I still don’t know what, if anything, is wrong with me. I just want to be sure of what I have, because sometimes, I don’t think the meds are working at all.
The sun rises and I take the white pill again. When the pill shakes against the sides of its metallic bowl, the ringing is unbearable. This has been my daily routine for five years now, my version of normalcy. Every morning, like one of Pavlov’s dogs, I swallow the pill. The ringing has trained my underdeveloped reward system.
But where do we draw the line between normal avoidance and a disorder? I’m sure that anyone reading this has had difficulty focusing on tasks that don’t appeal to them. Does the classification depend on how chronic the issue is? How much I avoid doing things I really need to? It seems almost impossible to pinpoint the difference between someone with this disorder and a normal, albeit lazy adult. When the symptoms I experience seem to be things that everyone goes through, it’s hard to see myself as truly in need of help. If everybody is abnormal in some way, then I don’t need that little white pill.
In the afternoon, I open my tiny jar with the powdery pill inside. I’m sitting at a desk in the Main Library, and the first pill I took at seven o’clock has worn off by now. Little bits of the replacement dose break down in my mouth. I try to swallow it as quick as I can to escape the bitter, metallic taste of dexamphetamine. I used to take capsules, but I’ve had to up my dose and now require one and a half tablets instead. The capsule provided a barrier between me and the flavour of my inadequacy. Now that I can taste the medicine, it makes me feel even more like an anomaly.
This feeling of inadequacy seeps into every corner of my life, from my grades to my social life, to my job. People with ADHD are more likely to experience depressive symptoms (Riglin et al., 2020) and I often wonder if that’s happening with me. In talking to people I know with ADHD, almost all of them have been treated for depression. My sample size is small, but we have all felt stuck.
On any given day, I wake up knowing I need to study, exercise, eat, socialise and work. On any given day, I forget to do about half of those things. I lose any lists I’ve made. I don’t start anything before I’ve wasted thirty minutes to two hours just trying to overcome the mental block of starting. Once I do start something, I’m fighting my instincts to continue and to not get distracted by the preoccupation of the day. I’d love to give my full focus to studying—what a privilege it is, I remind myself—and to learn more, understand more about the world through my degree. I’d love to express myself and my values through socialising or writing. I’d love to recharge by reading or exercising. But I’m restless; my thoughts jumping from one thing to the next, so much so that I can’t even start on one task. I am stuck in a limbo of anticipation and self-flagellation.
In taking the white pill, I admit something is wrong with me. I put my faith in it and can only hope that it helps. Otherwise, I’m in for a lot more sleepless nights.
