Don’t call me stupid

I HAVE always struggled with lack of concentration, hyperactivity, talkativeness, slowness of mind, and impulsiveness for as long as I can remember. I slogged through school with grades barely acceptable.

My teachers and classmates never trusted me with any task because they knew I would not accomplish it. My austere aunts always juxtaposed me with my stellar sister and our cousins. And even if my parents don’t show it,

I know I am a constant disappointment to them.

So with my mediocre grades and unimpressive attitude, people instantly decide I am stupid.

It’s probably one of the reasons I grew up with low self-esteem. I have always looked down on myself. I have always believed I cannot do it, that no matter how much I try, I will fail. Because that’s how I have been programmed: to fail.

Last year, I was diagnosed with depression. I’ve known about my depression for a long time but never found the strength to face it and seek help. I kept it inside me like some contagious disease and never talked about it to anyone.

Until the breakdown. I had cried for days and I couldn’t get to sleep, so I decided that it was time I saw someone. I called my parents, who live in the province, and told them about my condition—the sleepless nights, the crying, and even about the panic attacks.

They were so worried and urged me to see a psychiatrist.

I was medicated. In a few weeks, I felt better. The negative thoughts, the guilt, the constant fear, the apathy toward people, and the anxiety all flew out the window. I slowly gained self-confidence. But little did I know that the medication never really helped me get to the roots of my depression. It was just like a bandage that covered it. The wound is still fresh and rotting.

So the inevitable happened: One of the causes stuck its head out to remind me that they are not done tormenting my life.

For a long time I have ceased to think I am stupid, because I began to see that I am not. I speak well, my English is better than most people, if not spot on; I’ve read countless books, most of them are classics; and my vocabulary is broad to boot. People also come to me with questions, like they know I always have the answer.

I can talk with people older than me about politics, current events, literature and pop culture. I can talk about anything with people with whom I am comfortable.

True, there are days when I still lack concentration and people still have to repeat an instruction thrice so I’ll get it. There are still instances when I space out during conversations. During those instances, I find that I disconnect from what the other person is saying because I am thinking of food, or becoming nostalgic, or finding the wall very interesting because of the mural on it. During those instances, I forget to be in the moment.

There are also times when I am talking and, all of a sudden, I forget what I am saying.

But I never feel stupid during those times, probably because people have become accustomed to and have accepted my inability to concentrate.

Until I met him. The guy who turned my world upside down is exactly the kind of guy I have always wanted to be with—the intelligent type who knows what he’s talking about and is not one to brag about it, the guy who speaks such impeccable English that I feel ashamed of mine, the guy who is sensitive and sweet. In short, the guy of my dreams.

But who would’ve thought that when I finally met him, I’d be the same airhead that I was back in school? I couldn’t talk straight for fear he might correct me. I had difficulty expressing myself clearly because my brain basically decided to shut down when I was with him.

I couldn’t even get his jokes, or make one, because my processes are slow at work. I am simply a complete imbecile.

He was quite understanding at first. However, I felt that he was getting impatient. I began to feel more insecure as the days went by.

The change in him happened swiftly. He began to talk down to me. He suddenly became condescending to the point of scathing. He mocked me and laughed at me. And in more than one occasion, he directly called me stupid.

I became the girl who didn’t have a sense of humor. The inarticulate girl. The girl whose IQ didn’t match his.

My depression returned. I had to see my psychiatrist again to confide what was wrong, the things that bothered me, the fears, the impulses, and my insecurities.

I was diagnosed with ADHD (inattentive type). Apparently, I have had it all my life—another mental illness to top off my depression, another reason for pricey medication.

But with it came clarity; that I am not stupid. I never was. I am not lazy, or dull, or inept. I am just different. My brain is programmed to work differently. In fact, most people with ADHD are of above-average IQ, and have a creative mind.

I’ve read countless articles and life stories about ADHD, about other people who have the same illness as mine. I felt like I was backed by intelligent people, and I didn’t feel insecure anymore. Most of these people have succeeded and thrived in their chosen career.

I learned that my favorite writer, F. Scott Fitzgerald, also had ADHD. I was elated. I have something in common with the only man that could probably steal my heart with just a few words.

Slowly, I am gaining confidence. I am learning to accept myself as I am and not detesting it. I am never going to call myself stupid again, or let anyone call me that.

Korinne Daria Felebrico, 23, from Mandaluyong City, says she is “a girl on a sabbatical fighting off depression and ADHD one book at a time.”