I stood there, clutching the tiny pills in my palm, feeling as if I had lost a crucial battle. My heart sank as I looked into my son’s innocent eyes, and I uttered the most significant untruth of my life, “This is safe. You’ll be alright. I promise.” Inside, I was screaming: “Liar! Terrible mother! Failure!” The day I decided to medicate my son for his ADHD was one of the most challenging moments I’ve ever faced.
For a long time, I had resisted the urge to pick up one of those pills. I had embraced a “natural approach.” I eliminated artificial food colors, invested in pricey “natural light” bulbs for our kitchen, and even bought him a mini-trampoline to help channel his energy. I had him run laps around our living room between homework assignments. I loved him fiercely, fought for him, and did everything I could think of.
But my son was reluctant to take the medication. With a severe nut allergy, he was cautious about trying anything new. If it wasn’t familiar, he wouldn’t touch it. Getting him to swallow that pill was a battle of wills that I ultimately won through tears (from both of us), promises, and a bribe.
I told him it was safe, even though I knew I shouldn’t have made that promise. I had read the research and the potential side effects, and it frightened me. The studies were only two decades old and didn’t include my son. How could I be sure he wouldn’t be the one who would suffer an adverse reaction? How could I know this wouldn’t interfere with his brain development at such a crucial age? How could I be certain this would help him?
And yet, I made him that promise, and as his mother, his protector, he believed me. He swallowed the pill — that day and the following days. Each morning, opening that bottle served as a reminder that I was navigating motherhood blindfolded. I watched for any changes in his mood, appetite, or sleep patterns. He stopped eating lunch; he just wasn’t hungry. Teachers informed me he was calmer but not more focused. He could sit still but struggled to concentrate. He was no longer a disruption, at least most of the time.
I didn’t give him the pills on weekends. It might sound strange, but I hated seeing him subdued. My child is supposed to be vibrant, energetic, loud, and yes, at times, incredibly frustrating. But that is who he is. The quiet child who had become so thin that his doctor insisted we find ways to increase his calorie intake was not my son! I couldn’t bear to witness how the medication altered him, so I reserved it for school days, avoiding it on weekends and during the summer.
For five years, I continued with the medication.
Then came middle school. He began expressing his desire to stop taking the pills. “I want to want to eat lunch. I don’t like how they make me feel,” he said.
I found myself forcing him to take medication while he pleaded with me to stop. Middle school brought a flurry of parent-teacher meetings because he still wasn’t completing his assignments. Daily emails about extra homework for staring into space were overwhelming. We were both breaking. The nightly homework battles drained us of joy. His self-esteem plummeted, my patience evaporated, and we were all suffering. Yet, every weekday morning, I handed him the pills, knowing his lunchbox would return home untouched. He took them, avoiding my gaze, his compliance speaking volumes.
The weight of my failure and shame was almost unbearable. Each trip to the doctor for a three-month prescription refill — only three months at a time, due to the medication’s potential for abuse — was crushing. I clung to the hope that time might bring change, that perhaps a new medication could provide relief. We tried four different options, each with its own set of distressing side effects. On the mornings of trying new medications, I felt another wave of guilt wash over me. “Are you sure this one is okay?” he would ask, still putting his trust in me. I nodded, the lies rolling off my tongue more easily, while the guilt became a heavier load to carry.
Fortunately, circumstances changed for us. My son matured, and we found an alternative school that allowed him to learn in ways that suited him. The most significant change, however, was that he ceased taking those pills altogether. I no longer carried that heavy cloak of guilt.
I share my story for those who believe that parents who medicate do so without struggle or thought. It is not an easy decision, and few parents make it lightly. I offer this glimpse into my challenges as a plea for compassion towards those of us faced with such difficult choices. For some, medication is life-changing and the best decision they could make. For others, like me, it provided some help but didn’t transform our lives as hoped. And for yet others, it changes nothing, leaving them back at square one.
So, let’s be kind, hold back judgment, and hope that you never find yourself in a situation that requires you to make a promise to your child that you’re uncertain you can keep.
Summary:
Samantha Rivers shares her emotional journey as a mother who struggled with the difficult decision to medicate her son for ADHD. Despite her initial resistance and efforts to pursue natural alternatives, she eventually felt compelled to confront the reality of medication. As she navigated the challenges of parenting, medication, and her son’s evolving feelings about treatment, she ultimately learned about the complexities of ADHD and the importance of compassion for parents facing similar struggles.