ADHD, Shame, and the Invisible Double Standard

I seem to have let the almost-certain reality of my ADHD slip back into the unconscious. For a while now, I haven’t held it front and centre. Instead, I’ve fallen into the old trap of assuming everything is my fault.

Not that I’m shirking responsibility — far from it. There are things I can control. But what ADHD awareness does is ease the crushing pressure to maintain standards that simply aren’t realistic for my nervous system. The expectation to perform like someone neurotypical is exhausting. And the moment I forget I’m wired differently, I fall back into shame.

When They Criticise the Symptom

Here’s what I’ve realised: the traits I was most harshly criticised for as a child were likely symptoms of ADHD. I wasn’t lazy, or messy, or too much. I was struggling. And rather than investigate further, my mother chose to double down on those criticisms. She pursued them. Relished them, even. At times, it felt like she enjoyed complaining about me.

From one angle, it’s as if she used my disability to make herself feel better. And I can’t pretend that’s okay. It’s not. It’s actually sick. And I don’t want to be involved with someone like that ever again — not for my sake, and not for my son’s.

People won’t understand. That’s fine. But the cost of minimising that kind of emotional abuse is generational. If I allow my son to be exposed to someone who ridicules or belittles others to soothe their own inadequacy, I’m teaching him to tolerate it too. I’m teaching him to abandon himself.

Responsibility Without Shame

It’s taken a long time to separate responsibility from blame. Just because I want to grow, doesn’t mean I need to drag myself through the mud. I am responsible for how I move forward, yes. But I’m not to blame for having a brain that functions differently. I’m not broken — I’m wired uniquely. And I deserve to build my life around that reality, not in spite of it.

There’s been a part of me that wants to forgive my mother. That maybe she didn’t know. But deep down, I think she did. And if she didn’t, she certainly chose not to know. That’s what makes it so hard to let go of the anger. Not because I want revenge — but because I needed her to be better, and she refused.

The Gendered Lens: “Quirky vs. Chaotic”

Something else I’ve noticed — and this hit hard:

I can easily believe that a woman with ADHD could still find love. But I’ve subconsciously assumed a man with ADHD couldn’t.

Why is that?

Because women with ADHD are often labelled as quirky, cute, misunderstood, even endearing. Men? We get labelled as chaotic, unreliable, unsafe. It’s a cultural bias rooted deep in the collective unconscious — in the rigid definitions of masculinity and femininity.

We expect women to be emotionally expressive, scattered, dreamy — so ADHD fits more “neatly” into the quirky female archetype.

But for men? The script is different. We’re supposed to be providers, focused, stable, protectors. When we show forgetfulness, emotional sensitivity, or poor executive functioning, we’re seen as dangerous or incompetent. Less man. Less dateable. Less worthy.

And that stigma is so internalised, I caught myself believing it too.

But it’s wrong.

ADHD is not a character flaw. It’s not a moral failing. It’s not gendered. It just is. And healing begins when we stop trying to edit ourselves into someone else’s idea of “acceptable” and instead build a life that fits us.

So What Now?

Now, I remind myself that:

• My brain is not broken — it’s beautifully unique.
• My past is not my fault — but my healing is my responsibility.
• My anger at my mother is valid — and naming it is part of reclaiming power.
• My worth is not tied to performance — especially not neurotypical standards of it.
• My story doesn’t make me less lovable. If anything, it makes me more human.

There may be fewer people who truly see me — but those who do, will see all of me. And I’d rather be seen fully by a few than superficially accepted by the many.

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If you’re someone who’s lived this too — whether you’re male, female, or somewhere in between — know this: you are not alone, and you are not too much. You were never too much. You were simply never met properly.

And now? Now we get to change that.

For ourselves.
For our children.
For each other.

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