I said:
“I think I have ADHD.”
They answered:
“No, you’re just a ******. Get a job.”
So I ran.
In circles.
Around a reality
that never gave me room to breathe—
just fingers pointed and ******* advice.
They didn’t see the war in my head,
just the pupils.
They didn’t hear the silence in me,
just the noise I made.
I asked for help—
they handed me judgment.
I reached out—
they recoiled,
like I carried plague and guilt in my veins.
And then—
years later,
when everything’s burned,
when I wear my diagnosis like scars and proof,
they show up.
With a box.
“Here’s Ritalin. It’ll help.”
Ritalin.
Legal speed.
The same thing they hated me for chasing
now handed over
wrapped in plastic and prescription smiles.
What the **** happened?
Was it the label that made me worthy?
The paperwork that made my scream real?
I was never chasing a high.
I was chasing peace.
I was never after drugs.
I just wanted to understand
why my mind never shut up.
But there was no room for that.
Not then.
Not until now.
Now that the system sees
what I’ve been screaming
the whole
****
time.
Written from the frustration of being mislabeled for years. I wasn’t chasing a high — I was chasing silence in a storming mind. Misunderstood as an addict, dismissed by the system, denied peace. This is for everyone who had to scream just to be heard. For those with ADHD, for the fighters, for the forgotten.