The other day, I called the insurance company, which one never does due to delightful reasons. The customer service representative on the phone gave me all of her patience and went to great lengths to help me. I felt my anger and frustration rising disproportionately. Sure, I placed the call because I had issues with transferring coverage and other administrative cracks through which I seemed to have slipped this fall, but the woman on the other end of the line gave me her best and showed kindness in the process. 

I checked myself: Why are you angry right now? Why do you feel this level of frustration that does not match the situation? That’s when I realized the representative speaking had both a speech impediment and a high-pitched, squeaky voice, neither of which were within her control.

I took a deep breath and mentally confronted my emotions, instructing them to stand down. I was not engaged in a battle of wits with an abrasive person. Instead, my misophonia triggered an irrational reaction due to the sound quality of her voice and nothing else. As the woman spoke, I answered while reminding myself to filter my tone and not let the misophonia dictate how I sounded. 

Since my son’s ADHD diagnosis a few years ago and the subsequent diagnosing of the rest of the family, the way our family thinks and speaks has experienced a significant shift. We continue to learn about symptoms and patterns of behavior typical to ADHD people, and that knowledge empowers each of us to communicate differently with each other.

Before our family diagnosis, I sat at family meals with no understanding of why my oldest child and I would grow increasingly annoyed and cranky. I thought, “God! These people (my family) eat so loudly! Why can’t they just do better?” That then led to other negative thoughts and grumpy conversations or my simply tuning out, trying to ignore it all. Now, when we sit down, my oldest and I know that if one of us has a long day and very little emotional and mental energy left, we can turn to the others and say, “My misophonia is pretty bad right now. I need to step out for a moment,” or even say to the others that we love them, but we need to have our evening visit after dinner.

Misophonia impacts ADHD people to differing degrees. In our case, my oldest child and I struggle with it the most in our family. Once in high school, I made a classmate spit his gum into my open palm before an exam because I knew I would not be able to concentrate if I could hear him chewing. Bless that kid; he knew me well enough to comply without being offended.

Harvard Health explains:

People with misophonia are affected emotionally by common sounds — usually those made by others, and usually ones that other people don’t pay attention to. The examples above (breathing, yawning, or chewing) create a fight-or-flight response that triggers anger and a desire to escape. (Link to original article for further reading)

The more we learn as a family about our neurodivergence, the better equipped we have become to explain our experiences and have more patience with one another. When we come home from afternoon activities, and one of the kids stays in the car, we no longer feel tempted to tease them for choosing the car instead of their comfortable room to hang out in. Instead, we ask, “Do you need some time in the car to dissociate?” Usually, a giggle and “Yes” follow, and we leave them to do what they need. 

In fact, 4-5 p.m. or so has become dissociation hour around here. Everyone needs to retreat to their own corner for some mindless activity, whether that’s “doom scrolling,” playing a VR game, flipping through some hands of solitaire or another puzzle game on a phone, or even listening to music and staring at the ceiling. When I come home, I’ve learned I have to sit and do “nothing” for a little while to allow my brain time to settle from all of the stimulations of the day. As a result of honoring this need in all of us, we spend our evenings happier with one another. The kids argue less, my patience increases to meet the demands of evening parenting, and we sing and dance in the kitchen as I work on dinner. Without that time, everyone’s mental tanks run to zero, and arguments abound.

People often refer to dissociation in ADHD people as “Zoning Out.” Those of you in my generation will understand this analogy: our family once referred to it as “you’re flying toasters just cut on,” a reference to the old screensaver that floated across computer monitors. This form of losing focus should not be confused with dissociation disorder. Counseling Reviews posted a great article differentiating between the two and describing dissociation in ADHD patients:  https://www.counselingreviews.com/blog/adhd-zoning-out-vs-dissociation/

One day in 9th-grade science, I zoned out so hard it took the entire class to snap me out of it. I loved my teacher, who also coached me in basketball, and my lack of focus had zero to do with his teaching skills. Thankfully, I had a small class and a fantastic teacher who allowed me to be honest when he asked me, “Mary! Where have you been?”

I laughed and said, “You don’t want to know.” 

He smiled, responding, “You were zoned out hard. You’ve got to tell us where your mind was.”

I then explained that it had carried me below the ocean’s surface, fully geared up in scuba equipment, where I swam with a school of sharks. As you might imagine, every one of my classmates roared with laughter, as did my coach. Once he caught his breath, he commented on how that definitely was more interesting than his lesson but maybe now I could stay in the classroom with them a bit rather than swimming off.

I felt embarrassed for years and grateful for an understanding teacher and friends who knew me well. Now, however, I have answers for moments like that. In college, I experienced a similar event with a much less charitable outcome that left me feeling guilty and ashamed. The professor’s father-in-law guest lectured on the effects of the Holocaust. My mind had drifted far from the classroom despite my interest in the subject. My face turned crimson when he called on me to contribute to the discussion and I responded only with the silent shaking of my head.

Now that I understand more about myself and can relinquish the shame and at least some guilt. I also better recognize when my mind peters on the edge of taking flight and can stand up, stretch, walk a bit, or whatever I need to give it more adequate stimulation.

Dysregulation, the more sinister symptom sibling to dissociation, produces sometimes disastrous results from which one does not so quickly recover. In our house, we call this “runaway train brain.” It feels like your emotions load up behind a locomotive, zooming at increasing speeds, and you know you have zero hope of catching them. In the case of my reaction to the woman’s voice on my insurance call, my misophonia put me at risk of emotional dysregulation and made me stop, become aware of my emotions, and redirect myself.

The prefrontal cortex of our brain regulates attention, behavior, and emotions. For ADHD people, the prefrontal cortex doesn’t do its job as well, causing a dysregulation of emotions. This also explains why ADHD folks tend to exhibit poor impulse control, resulting in negative behaviors like overspending, gambling beyond their means, interrupting others when they’re speaking or blurting out thoughts, alcohol and drug abuse, and more. If you’re interested in some of the science behind understanding the prefrontal cortex and ADHD, check out this article from the National Library of Medicine: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2894421/

The ADHD Centre in the UK describes emotional dysregulation as:

a decreased ability to control emotional responses. This can result in emotional reactions that are disproportionate to the situation. People who have problems with emotional regulation may be seen to overreact in certain scenarios; some are quick to anger, whilst others may be quick to cry.

Generally speaking, people who struggle to regulate their emotions experience more intense feelings on a more regular basis, leading to emotional episodes that can resemble tantrums.

(Link to original article for further reading)

I’m embarrassed to say, but my desire for honesty compels me to share that in past moments of dysregulation, I have broken plates and dishes, snapped toys or tools in half, and screamed at the top of my lungs. For me, it feels like my emotions heat up like magma deep inside of me and push their way up, up, up until I have to erupt in some way to release the pressure and bring myself relief. Any sense of maturity, responsibility, or decorum disappears, and I explode. I usually have managed to postpone the eruption long enough until no one else was around. I try to avoid collateral damage as much as possible. Thankfully, gaining an understanding of the machinations and chemistry of my brain results in much, much fewer explosions. Now I know how to find the pressure release valve.

My youngest child experiences dysregulation the most, and we have learned techniques to interrupt the snowballing effect. We call it “resetting your brain.” It takes the form of stepping away and giving him time to play on a phone, tablet, VR headset, or some other device. As an infant, he suffered night terrors, and we discovered if we held our phone in front of his closed eyes and played nursery school videos with bright colors and cheery songs, he would open his eyes long enough to focus his attention, settle, then drift back to sleep. The next morning, he had no recollection of his dream or watching the video. We assume this “brain reset” interrupts the operating neural pathways to switch his thinking to a different one.

Dysregulation in our family follows overstimulation. Our brains don’t efficiently filter all of the information around us. When we find ourselves in situations overflowing with stimulants and sensory inputs, we become overloaded and cease to be able to process them. This can be a large crowd, such as a festival, a restaurant with too many television screens and loud music, or a family gathering with too many people we haven’t seen in a long time. It also can be something as seemingly benign as a tag on a shirt you haven’t realized has been scratching you all day.

I love to cook and take great pleasure when I have the luxury of spending an entire day in the kitchen. Despite this, I confusingly would find myself doing something I love at the stove, yet feeling anger and frustration building inside me. Woe to the person who happened to enter the kitchen in these moments and dare to ask me a question. I felt weak and rude for snapping at them, knowing they had done nothing to incur my wrath. Recently, I realized the combination of different food textures, the heat from the stove, and the smells activated happy emotions, but throw in the sound of the vent fan kicking on and refusing to turn off and it becomes too much. Those sensory inputs turn on me and send my negative emotions soaring. 

Understanding how our prefrontal cortexes sometimes fail us empowers our family to use the language of “overstimulation” and “dysregulation” to communicate how we’re feeling to each other. At the end of a busy day, I can tell my kids, “Hey, I’m feeling overstimulated right now. I want to hear about your days and anything else you want to tell me, but I need a minute. You’re all talking at the same time right now, and I can’t process it.” They then give me time to go to my room and regulate. If one of them happens to not be present when I talk to the others, they’ll fill each other in. Usually, within 15-20 minutes, I’m ready to return to the kids and listen to everything they’re dying to tell me. If we’re in a bustling crowd or busy store, one of my kids knows to turn to me and say, “I’m getting overstimulated and need a break.” That allows me to take care of them rather than all of us becoming frustrated with each other and fussing. I hand them the car keys to go out and sit for a while or a couple of bucks to walk down the mall to buy some lemonade and breathe.

I realize it may sound strange, but as quickly as we can become overstimulated, so too can we become understimulated. Dysregulation impacts us in both directions. ADHD people fill in the gaps when we feel our surroundings fail to provide us with enough sensory input. Truly, this aggravates me. I would love for my brain to find a happy stasis but, alas, it does not. As a result, we “stim” to satisfy our need for stimulation. When the situation does not provide enough, we will create it ourselves. 

You may have identified this behavior without realizing it if you found yourself saying to someone, “Stop fidgeting!” Or maybe you felt your loved one wasn’t paying attention to what you were saying because they bounced their leg up and down, played a game on their phone, their eyes wandered around the room, or they played with a piece of string or candy wrapper. 

ADHD people stim in unique ways, often invisible to others. I rub my feet together or flex my toes in my shoes. I’ll see others shake their heads or perform movements that mimic “stretching” but in a repetitive way. Other family members habitually bite their nails, often without realizing it. However, some ways of stimming lead to detrimental outcomes, making it essential to learn to recognize and interrupt them.

BetterHelp.com provides an excellent explanation:

The term “stimming” is generally an abbreviation for “self-stimulatory behavior.” While it may sound complicated, this can be thought of as an umbrella term used to describe any movements, patterns of behavior, or actions used to stimulate the senses. 

The most common forms of stimming, both in neurotypical and neurodivergent people, can include humming, swaying side to side, biting nails, biting the inside of the cheek, tapping fingers or toes, and rubbing the skin. These types of stimming can help people self-soothe and regain a sense of self-control. (Link to original article for further reading)

A year ago, I felt like a horrible mother to my youngest. I couldn’t understand what was happening to us. Until the fall of 2022, we had gotten along and had a great relationship. Then, somehow, we turned a corner that led us to argue fiercely with one another once or twice a week. I’m not talking about a disagreement; I mean, we flat-out argued with each other, complete with yelling and the whole thing. 

Being the parent in this scenario, I felt my shame and guilt bury me after every episode for failing to control myself better and the situation. However, I could not understand what caused these conflicts and would not be able to learn how to redirect them. That is until I read several articles in ADDittude magazine that explained how some ADHD people find arguing an excellent form of stimming, usually without realizing it. (Link to one of the articles for further reading) 

Guided by this new understanding, I looked back through my life and recalled several instances when either I or someone I loved picked a fight not out of conflict but out of a desperate need for stimulation. I thought of two people in particular with whom I had fought over the years and made the connections between dysregulation, stimming, and rejection sensitivity dysphoria to see why our arguments intensified beyond reason. It also explained my predicament with my son.

Immediately, I changed my approach when my son and I began to argue. Instead of reacting and engaging, I would interrupt my stimming patterns and speak honestly with him. I would say, “I think we both might be a little dysregulated right now. Let’s take a break.” Or I would point out that it felt like the trigger for the argument grew more out of a need for stimulation rather than a genuine desire to disagree. I still use this tactic with much less frequency because our awareness and understanding mean we no longer come close to stimming in this way. When I feel we might become unstable, I say that I don’t enjoy stimming by arguing, and I don’t think he does either. Then, we find a distraction until we’re ready to sit and talk about whatever might be the true source of discomfort.

We use other phrases and terms like “masking,” “ANTS,” “dopamine seeking,” and more, but I think I’ve given you a sense of the ways in which our family language has changed. These additions allow us to be more honest with one another about how we feel. I joke with people that the building where my kids go for therapy is my favorite building in town, but I only half-joke. I am so grateful for their therapists and mine, ADDittude magazine, and other resources for how they continuously form and improve our family vocabulary. Learning about our ADHD does not give us a crutch or excuse; instead, it empowers us to understand our brains better and communicate clearly with one another in ways that promote patience and understanding rather than trigger arguments and discord.

I am no expert on ADHD nor a medical professional; I’m simply an ADHD mom raising her ADHD kids with an ADHD co-parent. Hopefully, this reflection helps you consider your family language and how you might shift it to accommodate better the differences among your family members. Or maybe you’re newly diagnosed, and some of these terms can clarify your experiences or the experiences of those you love.