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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.
Kora Sani Feb 2019
i want to write
but the words aren't coming

i'm feeling trapped
by my mind's inability
to translate my emotions
to letters with meaning

i write to understand
why i feel the way i do
i am the doctor
of my own thoughts

but if i cannot write
then i cannot understand
& if i cannot understand
then i cannot diagnose

so here i sit
with the same confusion
i began with

some words written before me
as useless as they come
accomplishing nothing
begging for everything
Jo Baez Jun 2016
This might sound asinine
but diagnose me.
I know there's no cure,
yet there has to be something you could prescribe to sooth this disease.
Make me your human project.
Save me from turning inside out.
I'm on my knees with my hands on my head.
I can feel my thoughts itching under my skin.
I'm scratching my temple down to my skull.
My fingers are breaking bone by bone.
I don't believe in hell but if I did.
I swear,
If I could give it my own redefinition, this life would be it.
rootsbudsflowers Dec 2015
Sometime I wish
That someone would just
Diagnose me.
With depression
Or
Anxiety
Or
The like.

Instead of just feeling it
Inside,
I would have a word to put to it.
A word I knew
That other people shared.

Maybe then I wouldn't feel
So alone.
And maybe then
It wouldn't be wrong
That I feel so wrong.
And maybe then
I wouldn't feel bad
About feeling bad
All the time.

Please someone
Diagnose me.
So that I can have a reason
For feeling
This way.
I do struggle with anxiety, but this is something else that I'm working through. I don't feel like me anymore.

— The End —