My ADHD/Aspie son Clark Kent earned his nickname honestly, and continues to prove it fits, even at the age of 17: he believes he has super-human powers, while in reality he is the affably bumbling Clark Kent. As a senior in high school, he announced he was done with medication, that he didn’t need it. After we picked our jaws up off the floor, we caucused. We couldn’t let him go cold turkey, not and still allow him to drive his Tahoe, not and expect him to graduate from high school. We circled back with him and laid out the terms of our cooperation: supplements, diet change, sleep and non-gaming commitments, aerobic exercise, and a supplement regiment. He agreed, and at first it went shockingly well. Then he quit the supplements while taking antibiotics. With that spoke of the wheel broken, he quickly crashed.
We did our best to help him back up, but things went from bad to worse. His good grades plummeted. His hygiene stunk, literally. He snuck in gaming hours, got up after we all went to bed, and wouldn’t rise in the mornings even when I stood over his bed and yelled in his ear. He racked up tardies and unexcused missed assignments. He didn’t participate in debate or government affairs, his passions and the activities most closely tied to his dream of becoming an attorney and maybe someday a diplomat. He only spoke to argue, and he spouted nonsense. He was 200 pounds of out-of-control rebel about to torpedo his future.
We consulted our family counselor.
“Don’t save him,” he said. “Let him figure this out on his own. Let him learn.”
Bile rose in my mouth. I’m no helicopter mom, but we’d helped him escape failures before by reinstating structure and forcing him to succeed. My husband squeezed my hand so tightly my bones seemed to bend inward, but it helped.
“OK…” I replied, wondering if I meant it.
In early November, we tried one last time to get through to Clark Kent. I accessed his failing grades on the school district’s website. A 24 in Environmental Sciences. A 35 in English. Both Advanced Placement classes.
“Please,” I begged. “Please don’t do this to yourself.”
“I’m fine. It’s all fine. I aced the SAT,” he said, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes, and his tone was surly.
He was right. He had aced the SAT, to no one’s surprise.
“A good SAT,” I started, but he interrupted.
“Great SAT.”
I started again. “A great SAT score won’t get you into college, especially if you don’t graduate from high school.”
“I’m going to graduate.”
“If you don’t get accepted based on this past year’s grades, you’ll have to include your grades from this semester, this year, which would be fatal. And if you graduate late, even if you did get accepted for the fall, do you think Texas A&M is going to hold your spot? For grades like these??”
“I’ll get accepted.”
There was no reasoning with him. My husband and I held each other, and stepped away from the boy and let him plummet. It hurt like hell.
His final grades came in for the fall semester. Through his usual sorcery, he aced his finals in English and Environmental Science. But guess what? It’s impossible to raise a 35 and a 25 to passing. He failed them both so spectacularly that it was mathematically impossible for him to pass Enviro Science for the year. And he didn’t get credit for the semester of English, which was required for May graduation.
Then we got notice from the school counselor. Clark Kent hadn’t completed his application to Texas A&M and his other less-favored college choice, University of North Texas. Now I cried. It wasn’t a surprise, even though he promised he’d done it (lying was always one of his most distressing behaviors when his ADHD raged unabated), but it was heartbreaking. Would my genius, super-talented boy sabotage his entire future?
It was time to find out. From him.
Watch for the next installment of the Clark Kent Chronicles here on {a mom’s view of ADHD}, in March.
Until then, has this happened to any of you?
Pamela, aka Clark Kent’s Mom




























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