Finding clarity, learning to love my beautiful brain
One of my fondest childhood memories is all the time my brother and I spent at our grandparents’ place. When he retired, my grandpa Clem (my mom’s Dad) built a sprawling log house on a beautiful piece of land outside of the city. Over the years, he and my Grandma Edna created a cozy home for our extended family.
My mom is the eldest of eight, and all our large family gatherings and special events took place at the log house. My Mom, brother, and I also spent a lot of time there during our summer vacations (Mom was a teacher).
For the most part, my memories of the log house are happy, but underneath the happy memories runs a sub-current of discomfort. It’s at the log house that I first started noticing the ways in which I felt different from others.
I distinctly remember how welcoming the log house was when I was a child. I never felt scared or intimidated to be there, but I sometimes left feeling depleted. The environment at the log house was either very calm and peaceful, or loud and boisterous—there didn’t seem to be an in-between.
In the quiet moments, my British grandmother would make pot after pot of tea, and we would watch Coronation Street at the kitchen table or look at photo albums of her British sister and family overseas. My grandfather was always working on some project or another, usually outside surrounded by the beautiful forest. During the holidays, my grandfather would cook a massive turkey in their basement stove while, in the kitchen, an assembly line of relatives riced potatoes, filled several boats with gravy made from scratch, chopped homemade pickles, and laid out bowls of beets and homemade cranberry sauce. The food was delicious and bountiful, and I enjoyed visiting with my cousins who I only saw once or twice a year. But I also struggled in big groups.
I vividly remember more than one Christmas (before the age of ten) spent in an upstairs bedroom at the log house, sprawled out on the bed, in the dark, with a massive stomach ache. Even with my head pressed into the pillow, I could hear the muffled sounds of conversation and laughter as my family celebrated downstairs.
Try as I might, I couldn’t peel myself off the bed—my body felt heavy and frozen with fear. My anxiety usually started on Christmas Eve, sometimes at our church candlelight service, and sometimes in the middle of the night while waiting for Santa to arrive. By Christmas morning, the dull pain had turned into full-blown gut rot.
When I was in this state, the lights, sounds, and smells of my grandparents house tipped me over the edge. I felt claustrophobic and wildly manic at the same time. My mom always chalked it up to Christmas excitement, but as I got older I sensed that it was more than excitement. As the years passed, those Christmases became an awkward but distant memory, until I got sober.
It was in a sobriety meeting with The Luckiest Club that I first heard someone describe their experience as a neurodivergent person. I felt like I was listening to the pages of my journal being read aloud, pages that no one had ever seen.
I felt exposed and vulnerable, but I also felt seen. I never realized that others might have experienced what I did all those years ago. The sweaty palms, racing heart, and chattering teeth—all outward manifestations of the speed at which my brain was whizzing along beneath the surface.
As a child, I didn’t know how to quiet my brain; nothing I did seemed to tame it. In class, I frequently zoned out in daydreams, and I was sometimes labeled as distracted. “Kezia has so much potential…” often showed up on progress reports and in parent-teacher interviews.
Studying and staying on task were hard for me, and when it came time to figure out what I wanted to do with my life, the assumption was that I would go to college or university. Even this proved challenging, and I changed majors and programs more times than I can remember.
Learning has been a lifelong passion for me, and when I shine I really shine, but with two caveats: I have to be interested in what I’m studying, and I have to have the freedom to manage my own time. I’ve always found online learning best suited to my needs but, unfortunately, it’s never led me to a stable career.
In my early twenties, as I transitioned into the working world, I discovered that drinking connected people in workplaces. After-work drinks, weekend bar meetups, weekday client lunches, boozy golf course sales pitches… There was no shortage of opportunities to indulge in drinking in the corporate world.
Drinking was as much a part of the corporate office culture as yearly reviews and team bonding exercises. But rather than fitting comfortably into the mold of stellar office worker, I once again noticed anxiety and nerves creeping in. I desperately wanted people to like me, so my drinking became about people-pleasing rather than truly connecting. Having that glass in my hand quieted my racing thoughts and brought me out of my shell in social situations. The problem was I didn’t know when to stop, and the comedown was crushing. This continued for years even when I eventually left the corporate world and found myself as a single mom.
Drinking did for me what I couldn’t do for myself: it hid my insides from the outside world. It concealed the parts of me that I deemed unacceptable and unlovable. Every time I drank, I put a neatly folded piece of paper over the things that made me unique and taped every edge and corner until no air could escape.
If ever I felt that I was showing too much of my real self, I simply drank more. I became the girl I thought I had to be in order to be loved. I was Kezia, the fun party girl who never said no. I was the bubbly girl with the edgy history who still hadn’t quite cleaned up her act.
Outside of the bar, I drifted along aimlessly, never allowing myself to ponder my purpose. I hung around people who didn’t care about me, and my lack of self-worth was evident in the group I surrounded myself with. It stung every time a man told me that he couldn’t see a future with me. I never stopped to consider that most of the men I spent time with were unavailable (physically, mentally, emotionally); I assumed the problem was me. Being disposable became both an impenetrable shell and the dagger that finally brought me to my knees.
My drinking escalated with each major event in my life, from the breakdown of my first serious relationship (which brought me to the United Kingdom for seven years), to losing my dream job in Human Resources over something completely out of my control, to becoming a single mom when my daughter was ten months old.
Through it all, I struggled to manage even the most basic life tasks, such as paying my bills on time, renewing my car insurance, and holding down a job for longer than a year. None of it made sense, and I couldn’t understand why such simple things were so difficult for me. It wasn’t until over two years into my sobriety journey that I discovered the neurodivergent community and started to piece together parts of my story.
Living with undiagnosed, unmanaged ADHD is like wearing glasses that are the wrong prescription. My world was constantly fuzzy, and I felt like I was at the mercy of a higher power who didn’t favor me. Life felt hopeless and out of control; drinking and abusing substances was the only way I knew to survive.
Sobriety gave me a clarity that was never accessible when I was drinking. It cleared the cobwebs from my head and allowed me to focus on learning as much as I can about my big, beautiful brain.
I no longer see my neurodivergence as a character flaw. With a clear head, heart, and mind, I’m learning ways of managing the symptoms of my ADHD. I’m learning how to thrive, and I’m chasing the dreams that I know are meant for me. I no longer seek shortcuts or use other people to get what I want. I’m okay with being a beginner.
It’s a lifelong process that’s steeped in curiosity, and I’m starting to forgive myself for the things that happened when I was in survival mode. For so much of my life, alcohol and ADHD were enmeshed. Untangling their complex web of co-dependence proves to me that I don’t need anything external in order to be loved. I am inherently beautiful and worthy, exactly as I am.
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