How an ADHD diagnosis saved my marriage – for a while anyway

During our first anniversary celebration, I had a bit too much to drink and questioned my spouse if they had any remorse about marrying me.

He mentioned that he wouldn't precisely term it as regret.

For the following 20 minutes, he endeavored to clarify his response, yet I didn't absorb any of it. I trusted that this was a sign of my marriage ending, so I stopped mixing drinks and started hastily consuming whiskey, then eventually cried myself to sleep. When we woke up the next day, despite our headaches, he apologized and I vowed to put in more effort.

When Kyle and I got married, he was excited to establish a regular way of life. Initially, I also shared his enthusiasm, but in time, we both realized that I was better suited to the unpredictability and independence that comes with "seriously dating."

In our late 20s, we happened to reunite in Kansas City. I had spent my last ten years living in Brooklyn, while my partner had just wrapped up his 18 months teaching English in Korea. After our initial date, we instantly became inseparable and already had our next three dates in the works. I immediately caught on that he expressed his love by making fancy dishes and creating personalized mix CDs, even though it was well after their prime. Fast forward two years and we celebrated our wedding with an on-trend farm party in 2012.

Right after we got married, I started to worry about being committed to someone who always wanted to know what I was going to do next. It's normal to have expectations in a relationship, but my husband wanted to know everything from what we were doing for the evening to what our plans were for the weekend or his next trip to Costco, and I didn't have any plans. I've always just eaten when I was hungry and gone to bed when I couldn't stay awake anymore. The only thing I ever bought in big quantities was my favorite lipstick when I found out it was going to be discontinued.

My life had been a series of attempts that never seemed to work out before I met Kyle. I kept striving for the ideal job, apartment, or partner, but ultimately they left me feeling uncomfortable like a scratchy sweater. I would end up making a drastic change and beginning again. However, Kyle was like my favorite comfy sweatshirt that eventually became a tad too tight after we got married. He would ask questions that I had no answer for, such as why I could spend hours arguing with Republicans on Facebook but not spend 15 minutes hanging out with him. He also questioned me about why I never come to bed with him or didn't want to talk to him about money or our relationship.

Everything he requested was realistically achievable, yet I struggled to accomplish it. Every few weeks, he would share articles that essentially reiterated what I had been told by my teachers, self-help audiobooks, and employers throughout my life: your effort is not sufficient.

I was afraid of losing him (not just because he ensured that I had at least one proper meal each day), so I only skimmed through the articles he sent, consumed twice the amount of caffeine, and relied excessively on reminders on my calendar. I created a budget spreadsheet that I constantly updated for around a month and scheduled alerts for everything, even "Talk to Kyle" on weekdays to go over our evening plans (or lack thereof). And typically, I did touch base. But then, I stopped.

Following our most terrible arguments, I used to weep in the shower, pondering how many more times I could ruin our relationship before he'd decide to end things. Despite my best efforts, I always seemed to find a method to sabotage everything.

After some time, I became pregnant and realized that I needed to make some adjustments. It wasn't the baby's choice to have me as a mother, so I devoted myself completely to getting ready for the little one's arrival. I connected with Facebook communities filled with people who were overly concerned about things like soft cheese and stretch marks, and I collected stacks of parenting books that I hoped to read one day.

Although breastfeeding and unspecified postpartum anxiety caused a difficult start, the first year of being a mother was easier than the first year of marriage. Kyle and I were completely infatuated with our son, Teddy, and didn't focus on the issues in our relationship. I was very strict about Teddy's sleep and meal schedule and maintained his tiny wardrobe by washing and putting away clothes for a whole year. It was surprisingly satisfying to dedicate myself completely to Teddy, who depended on me for everything without needing to discuss topics like finances or dinner.

After Teddy turned one, I got a fantastic job handling social media for a restaurant chain. I was thrilled to finally dress up and use my brain for tasks besides playing peekaboo and reciting children's books from memory. I was constantly receiving notifications and responding to negative reviews, which kept things exciting.

There was a large accumulation of dirty clothes at home. The mornings were extremely disorganized.

Kyle and I have once again engaged in an argument.

On a certain night, everything appeared to be going without a hitch, and he requested if it would be possible for me to prepare dinner for us once a month. He suggested something straightforward, such as the roast chicken I used to cook.

Wow, do you remember the roast chicken that I used to cook back when I was a freelancer and had no distractions from a toddler? That was truly the best.

I couldn't express myself because I was deeply disturbed, however, I couldn't stop crying. It wasn't just tears, it was a mournful cry.

"I cannot comprehend how women manage to juggle their responsibilities of being a parent, having a career, cooking, cleaning, and accomplishing everything else in their lives."

We decided to get some takeout and he comforted me. However, the peaceful feeling didn't stick around for long. Even though I put in effort, I couldn't manage to excel in my roles as a partner, a mother, and an employee. It seemed that I was only doing well in one area while struggling in all other aspects.

For our fifth anniversary, Kyle - always seeing the glass as half full - gave me an unexpected gift. He had made a reservation for us to spend the weekend away, luxuriating in a treehouse. Knowing how hectic traveling can be, he tactfully gave me a warning two months in advance. I spent the weeks before our trip working hard so that I could get all my work done early, allowing me to focus on spending quality time with my spouse. (Not that it was hard to stay in the moment, with a heart-shaped jacuzzi overlooking the breathtaking Ozark mountains!) Thanks to Kyle's thoughtfulness, I finally felt like I had everything under control.

It seems that I was overly prepared because I mistakenly arrived one day early for a brunch that was planned for the weekend before our departure. However, I took this as a lighthearted moment and used it as a cue to verify the plans I had made for our short trip.

Initially, I sent a message to the individual overseeing the dogs: "I am verifying that I will bring the dogs to your attention on Thursday."

After that, the person who takes care of the children: "Don't forget you're free on Friday!" Later, my partner's parents: "We're arranging everything for next weekend. Are you going to get Teddy from school on Thursday and look after him until Sunday?"

The first one to respond was Kyle's mother who stated, "However, aren't you planning on leaving town during the following weekend?"

As the nerves crept in, I began to perspire from unfamiliar spots. I frantically searched for the email confirmation of my reservation for the treehouse. A wave of relief washed over me as I discovered that I had the correct departure date. However, my relief was short-lived as I glanced at my phone's lock screen and realized my true predicament. I was completely clueless about the current day in relation to the one I was supposed to depart. I had lost all sense of time.

I did my usual routine of organizing my schedule, but encountered a problem on Friday when my babysitter was running behind schedule. I sent her a message asking about her location, hoping she was nearby.

I was caught off guard by her response: "You're in Wichita. And you're staying in a treehouse in Arkansas, aren't you?!"

I completely forgot to set a new appointment with the caregiver for my child.

Why was I still making so many mistakes?

During the beginning of my marriage, I was searching for answers and came across an article titled "ADHD Is Different for Women." I related to many aspects of it, such as feeling like I couldn't keep everything in order, being disorganized, forgetful, and feeling shame about it all. (This was also reflected in the amount of dirty coffee cups around my home.)

When I first considered the possibility of having ADHD, I dismissed it as a simple solution to my problems. Instead, I believed that I could solve my issues by simply getting more sleep, being more organized, and taking care of my body with things like exercise, turmeric tea, and avoiding gluten. In my mind, the answer was to simply try harder rather than accept a diagnosis of ADHD.

In the past, I tried to ignore the article, but it stayed in my thoughts and I had a sudden urge to read it again. While multitasking with my child, I messaged my supervisor and searched on my phone for information on women, ADHD, and unclean cups. When I revisited the article years later, I noticed a key detail I had overlooked before: women tend to hide their symptoms until they reach their thirties, which can be a challenging time due to marriage and parenthood, leading to a breaking point.

I finally allowed myself to consider that my brain might not be functioning properly. It occurred to me that my struggles might not be due to lack of effort, but rather due to insufficient dopamine levels that prevent me from functioning like a typical person. This realization brought about a mix of emotions, including sadness, relief, and tears.

I sent Kyle a hyperlink to the piece using only a single term: "Myself."

After a couple of minutes, he responded with, "Wow, that's just insane, darling. The voice on the other end precisely mimics your own."

Alternative: "It would be advisable to visit a medical professional as well. If medication can significantly improve your overall well-being, you are entitled to receive that benefit."

I truly deserved it. We both actually did. I deserved to have a life with lesser pressure and embarrassment, while Kyle deserved to have a spouse whose brain produced dopamine similar to the woman he perceived he had married.

After arriving back from our incredible weekend in the treehouse, I made it my mission to search for a doctor who could assist me with treatment. However, this proved to be a difficult task. During my first couple of appointments, I spoke with a resident in psychiatry who tried to convince me that my condition was bipolar disorder. Though I would have accepted this diagnosis with open arms and pursued treatment if I truly believed it to be accurate, I had done my own research and knew that this was not the case. Even though I reached out to my insurance company for aid in finding another practitioner, they were not of much help. As a result, I started asking around for a doctor who would, at the very least, believe and trust the information I presented them with.

After some time had passed, I was able to locate a psychologist named Dr. B who was an expert in dealing with ADHD. It was surprising that she was welcoming new patients, though this may have been due in part to the fact that her office was located 35 minutes outside of the city. In spite of the fact that she did not accept my insurance and could not prescribe medication, my desire to have someone believe in me was so strong that I was willing to pay her for several 50-minute sessions where I shared abbreviated details of my life with her.

When I spoke to Dr. B, they didn't brush off my concerns and actually acknowledged my emotions. As I continued to speak with them, I began to recognize that many of the issues I've faced could be due to ADHD symptoms. As I made these connections, I couldn't help but cry. It was a mixture of relief, finally having an explanation, and sadness for how difficult it's been for me in the past, and how others have treated me because of it.

The last meeting I had with Dr. B wasn't as emotionally intense as previous ones. Surprisingly, it was quite enjoyable. She conducted cognitive tests to evaluate whether I had ADHD officially, and I impressed her with some of my abilities, such as repeating an absurdly long sequence of numbers. However, we both laughed when I struggled with tasks that involved my short-term memory, like repeating anything backward. I couldn't even get past the first word, letter or number!

"I am astonished that nobody has discovered this about you until you reached the age of 35," Dr. B expressed while offering a handwritten referral sheet.

"I'm nearly 36," I mentioned upon observing that she had jotted down "ADHD & talented" under the diagnosis section.

Prior to my departure, she provided me with the contact information of a mental health specialist who accepts my insurance plan. This individual can also prescribe me medications as needed.

Kyle's diagnosis has made him more aware of my forgetfulness when it comes to our plans or when I ask him to buy me broccoli only for it to be wasted at the bottom of the fridge. My medication aids me in focusing on work throughout the day so I can devote more time to my family later in the evening. Moreover, our therapy has taught me that putting in more effort into a relationship is typically beneficial.

However, we shouldn't deceive ourselves that this is the conclusion of my joyful story, as it's not.

A couple of years ago, I penned down an article where I stated that being diagnosed with ADHD helped rescue my marriage. However, as time went by, I discovered that it merely delayed the inevitable outcome- although that doesn't mean it wasn't helpful, mainly due to having young children involved. Throughout the years, we came to realize that there were additional things that neither of us comprehended about ourselves or each other before tying the knot. Attempting to make things right couldn't alter our personalities, change our ways of attachment, or erase long-standing grudges that built up over a decade.

I made the decision to end my marriage in November 2023, following a considerable amount of therapy. If only I had received a diagnosis earlier in life, I may have had a better understanding of my own requirements and boundaries before entering into the relationship. However, moving forward, I feel positive and appreciative of the self-knowledge I have gained on my journey.

The following is a revised version of a part of Emily Farris' memoir titled "I'll Only Need Another Five Minutes," which is currently available.