A Matter of Focus: Inside the Mind of a Teen with ADHD
“You have forty minutes for this test. You can begin,” says Mrs. A, my sixth-grade Chumash teacher. Flipping over my test, I quickly scan the first page before beginning. Big mistake. The sight of so much Hebrew gibberish hits me like a cloud of smoke, clogging my lungs, making it hard to breathe. I close my eyes.
Breathe, just breathe.
I inhale deeply, slowly look down at the paper, and force myself to block out everything except for the first few lines.
After a few minutes, I’m writing away. I got this.
No, I don’t.
I’m only a few questions in, on the verge of remembering an answer when out of nowhere, Sarah, seated to my right, begins breathing heavily. The sound of her breathing pierces my eardrum. My first instinct is to tell her to be quiet, but I stop myself.
Breathe, just breathe.
I push myself to continue, but it’s no use. More than half of my brain is being used just trying to drown out Sarah’s breathing.
I look up, annoyed, waiting for someone to shush Sarah, but everyone’s silently writing away.
Don’t they hear it? Weird. How could they miss it?
I’m back in the test, when the sounds of pencils scratching on paper threaten to make my head explode.
Frustrated, I glance at the clock, only to see that ten minutes have already gone by. I didn’t even finish the first page yet!
I’m beginning to lose patience. I flip through the test pages, checking to see how many questions there are. 43. Okay, okay, okay. Just start.
I’m writing away again when Mrs. A’s voice rings out, “Half a period left.”
Frantically, I begin reading question after question, writing answer after answer, and I manage to complete the first two pages, much to my own surprise.
I glance at section three and read the instructions. Um. What?
I read them again.
And again.
The instructions are in English, but they might as well be in Chinese. I begin breaking the instructions down into smaller pieces. Usually that helps. But I’m feeling so frantic, all those pieces start confusing me, and suddenly I’m lost.
I skip to the next section and feel relieved when I see the instructions are clear—I just need to translate words from the pesukim. Within a few minutes, I fill out the section, and I’m beaming because studying paid off. But then I look down at the section below and realize that that’s where I’m supposed to translate the words. Huh?
“Ten minutes left,” Mrs. A announces. I look back at the previous section and realize I totally misunderstood the instructions. I stuff my knuckles in my mouth to stop myself from screaming.
Breathe, just breathe.
Okay. I got this. Wait—where did my pencil go?
I look down at my messed-up test, and my frustration threatens to consume me. I had hurried through the first two pages, left one section blank since I didn’t understand what to do, translated words in the wrong section, still have an entire page of questions I didn’t get to, and I just lost my pencil. By now, there are two minutes left, and I’m seriously done.
The ticking of the clock fills my mind, and I just know I’m going to cry.
Breathe, just—
The bell cuts me off.
Ahhhhh! I clench my teeth. I can’t!
I’m holding back tears.
I studied so hard for this. I don’t understand. I knew it. What happened?
The teacher comes around collecting all the tests. I quickly hand mine to her and run out of the room. I make it to the bathroom just in time. The second I step inside, I fall to the floor, sobbing.
In This Section
A Matter of Focus: Inside the Mind of a Teen with ADHD by Leah B.
What to Do When Your Child Is Struggling by Amian Frost Kelemer
The View on the Ground: A teacher’s perspective, as told to Rachel Schwartzberg