I’ve always been shit at reading.
I love stories, I love learning new things, and I’ve always wanted to enjoy reading, but it’s hard.
I’ve read a handful of books in my life and a few of them have been genuinely life-changing. I truly believe that books hold the answers to many of my struggles.
I want to read more, and part of the reason I’m writing this blog is to reinforce that desire, but it’s a struggle. I invite you to enjoy a long-winded story that isn’t only about my struggles with reading, but what they represent.
A few things happen when I try to read that frustrate me to no end
Thing 1:
I look at the words. I turn the pages. But half the time, I’m not actually reading.
I pick up a book and start. My inner monologue kicks in.
“I like this character. Hope he doesn’t die. I wonder how many pages this book has. Don’t check.”
I’m on the train to work, and I’m killing it. No one’s looking, so I use my finger to follow the words like a child.
“Read that page pretty fast. Decent. You’re good at this—quick check—518 pages. Fuck. It’s okay.”
I compare the thickness of what I’ve read to what’s left. Just curious, that’s all. I keep going.
“Wait, what was this guy’s story from the last chapter? Should I go back and check? Oh shit, I forgot to bring my lunch, I’ll have to get something from the shop. Why are train announcements always that bloody loud?”
I finish another page. Feels good. Maybe the more I read, the easier it’ll get.
Someone sits next to me. I stop using my finger to guide me. It’s fine, I want to stop doing that anyway.
“This guy has a coffee from Greggs. I’d love a coffee. Gregg’s is a weird choice for a coffee, although the festive flat white with the gingerbread is actually top-tier. I do kind of hate how Christmas stuff starts way too early though. Should be locked down to December.”
I get halfway through another page. Then reality hits.
I have no idea what’s happening in this book.
I sigh. Feel bad about myself. Put the book away.
Thing 2:
Even when I’m not distracted, I struggle to control my eyes. My focus jumps unpredictably, too far ahead, too far back, skipping paragraphs at random before snapping back to where it should be. The words blur together and begin stacking like bricks into an unreadable wall. It’s exhausting.
I still don’t know what this is or why it happens. I’d love to know if other people experience it. I’ve Googled it a few times and found similar accounts, but nothing quite the same. People say reading more helps, that it gets easier with practice. To some extent I have seen truth in that.
I think it’s a fatigue thing, but if that’s the case, I hate how quickly it sets in.
A meandering backstory
A clueless child
There was a boy named Ryan at my primary school. He was always misbehaving, throwing things, shouting, crying. He seemed angry a lot, craved attention, and was completely unpredictable. But as far as I remember, he was a really nice boy. He got bullied for being in the special class and eventually he moved to another school. I remember being told that Ryan had a learning difficulty and that it was called Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder or “ADHD” for short.
In high school, I knew a few more kids with ADHD. None quite like Ryan. Some were allowed to stand up during lessons or leave and come back whenever they needed. They got extra support during exams. A few were disruptive, but most just seemed restless, always moving. They seemed to have a lot to say all the time. They were “hyper” and couldn’t help it and teachers were always nice to them. Sometimes it seemed like they had worked out how to get special treatment. I was judgemental and I didn’t really get it.
I wasn’t like them.
Sure, I was fidgety. I swung on my chair a lot, and I always had something in my hands, usually a toy skateboard or someone else’s pen, but I never had to stand up and walk around like some kids did. I wasn’t disruptive. If anything, I barely talked at all unless I was sat next to a close friend.
But looking back, there were some interesting things about my schooling experience. I couldn’t understand how other kids kept their pencil cases organised, mine was always covered in ink and filled with pencil shavings. My foolproof system for remembering the right books and materials was to never empty my school bag. Ever. Homework constantly slipped my mind, and whenever possible, I scrambled to finish it during the lesson it was due. And since I never got enough sleep at home, I caught up during some of my lessons.
My coursework grades were terrible, I never gave myself enough time to do any of it properly. But when it came to exams, I did surprisingly well, even though I left all my revision to the last minute.
I had intense fixations on people and things. I was deeply sensitive. Small slights felt like unbearable betrayals. I would often feel personally attacked by teachers and other students. I spent a lot of time battling intense feelings of rejection and inadequacy. I was angry and uncomfortable in my own skin.
But I wasn’t like the ADHD kids, was I?
“Ross is really clever, but he doesn’t apply himself. He doesn’t seem to care enough.” – My teachers.
“You need to start trying harder.” – My parents.
I grew up believing I was lazy.
A slightly less clueless young adult
Later in life I went to university to study Psychology. I started to understand ADHD in a way I never had before. I was taught that it was under-diagnosed and often misdiagnosed too. As I sat through lectures on executive dysfunction, attention regulation, and impulse control, I felt like I was consuming a detailed report on my own life.
I left those classes thinking, I definitely fucking have that. No question.
But when I told friends about my suspicions, they brushed them off. Everyone’s a bit like that. I think you’d know by now if you had a disorder.
At 19, I went to the doctor. I told him I thought I had ADHD and asked to be tested. He asked why I thought that.
“I struggle to focus. I’m disorganised and really untidy. I’m constantly fidgeting. I’m underachieving because I just don’t have the energy to do things. I always thought I was lazy, but now I think there’s something else going on. I’m tired all the time, something isn’t right.”
“You made it to university?” he asked.
“You have a job too?”
“Yes…?”
He shook his head. “ADHD is severely limiting. It makes education and employment difficult to sustain. I don’t think you have ADHD, I think you need better quality sleep.” Then he handed me a leaflet on sleep hygiene.
So that was that. I wasn’t neurodivergent. I was just tired. And lazy.
A full time employee
Two years later, after attending maybe 10% of my lectures, I somehow graduated. Then came full-time work, a soul-crushing call centre job that had nothing to do with my degree.
It was hell.
My performance was tracked by the number of calls I dealt with and how quickly I handled them. I was consistently underperforming. I could deal with calls quickly but every time one of them ended, I felt this pent-up frustration, like I needed to decompress before I could face another.
I’d push the button to pause my queue of incoming calls. I’d roll my chair back from the screen, stretch my arms, crack my knuckles, and just… breathe. Then I’d brace myself and take another call.
Soon, I was taking a lot of toilet breaks, so many that it started to look suspicious. I’d get up to make a coffee I didn’t want, just for an excuse to leave my desk. Anything to escape, even for a moment. My call statistics were suffering and I was receiving warnings from management about my performance. I was stressed.
At 22, I went to see a doctor again.
“I spoke to another doctor a few years ago, I thought I had ADHD, I still do. I’m really struggling at work. I just want to be tested and maybe try medication.”
The doctor zeroed in on my mention of medication.
He asked me what I’ve heard about stimulant medication. He explained to me that university students and young professionals come to him every week, trying their luck at getting a prescription for ADHD medication. His scepticism was obvious.
“I’m not even sure I want medication,” I told him. “I just want help, whatever that looks like.”
He shifted the conversation to my lifestyle instead. How much sleep was I getting? Did I exercise? What was my diet like?
Finally, he said, “Look, I don’t think you have ADHD. Let’s focus on lifestyle improvements, starting with sleep and nutrition. But if you really want a referral to a specialist, I can do that. Just know there’s a significant waiting list, and I can’t tell you how long it’ll take.”
I walked out feeling demoralised, convinced, yet again, that I was just lazy.
I’m just fucking lazy.
Even with the option of a referral, something in me deflated. Maybe I really didn’t have ADHD. Maybe I was just looking for excuses. Why go through months of bureaucracy just to be told, in the end, to get better sleep and eat more vegetables?
A burnt out man
By 30, I had spent years battling depression and anxiety that stemmed from a variety of things. I’d managed to get myself a much better career, but it had felt empty and meaningless for a while. I’d had some beautiful relationships but they had grown into a source of intense pain for me. I’d broken my own heart more than once, and while I was still trying to recover, someone new came along and shattered me completely.
I was in a rough place mentally, so I decided to go to therapy. While searching for a therapist, I noticed one who had “ADHD” in her long list of specialisations. On a whim, I booked a session, thinking that alongside working on my low mood and anxiety, I could ask some questions about the disorder I was once sure I had.
It was during those conversations that I began to understand ADHD in a way I never had before. I had always linked ADHD to focus issues, forgetfulness, and disorganisation mainly, but I had never connected it to the deep emotional struggles I had been carrying.
My emotional sensitivity, my feelings of inadequacy and my fear of rejection were all things that were consistent with ADHD. My therapist suggested I get assessed by a psychiatrist and recommended going private as NHS waiting times were nearly two years long at this time.
A way forward
Private assessments aren’t cheap, but my curiosity and my determination to improve my life outweighed the cost. So I went for it.
The first few steps of the assessment were a mix of personal evaluations, a strange and painfully boring eye tracking focus test, and a questionnaire that required my Mother to recount what I was like as a child. The final step was the big one, an in-depth assessment with a psychiatrist.
I was nervous. Part of me still felt conflicted about going the private route. I’d done my research, and the clinic had solid reviews and a good reputation, but I couldn’t shake the fact that they had a financial incentive to diagnose me. That thought sat uncomfortably in my mind.
The psychiatrist put me at ease almost immediately. He had a warmth about him, something that felt inherently trustworthy. We spoke over webcam, and when he noted my physical observations, he said “That’s a good height you have there”, which I found kind of funny and flattering at the same time.
He walked me through my personal history, the notes from my mum, and the patterns in my behaviour. He began expressing genuine surprise that my struggles hadn’t been addressed when I was younger. I could tell, even before he said it outright, that he was leaning toward a diagnosis.|
I told him my concern outright, I didn’t want to be manipulated. I wanted to be sure that this diagnosis, if he gave it, was real. He listened carefully and then methodically broke it down for me. He explained how my behaviours, recorded across multiple assessments, aligned with ADHD in ways that weren’t vague or subjective. He told me he was in the process of writing a full report detailing exactly why he believed I had ADHD and that reading it should give me reassurance. He also clarified that he personally didn’t make any extra money from diagnosing me.
The resistance I’d been holding onto started to drop. Relief settled in, but alongside it came guilt. I regretted not exploring this sooner. I thought back to when the NHS had offered me a referral at 22, and I’d brushed it off. I felt bad that it had taken me until 30 years old to fully acknowledge this part of myself. Nevertheless, I now had a way forward.
The Psychiatrist diagnosed me with ADHD on that call and sent me the comprehensive report that he had promised.
And with that, we moved on to a conversation about treatment.
Circling Back to Reading
Taking ADHD medication has been a fascinating experience. I’ve been on a stimulant called Lisdexamfetamine for a while now, and while it’s brought some life-changing benefits, it’s also come with a few unsettling downsides, but that’s a story for another time.
One of the biggest, most unexpected changes has been the way it’s transformed my relationship with reading. I can lock in much easier now. The constant internal chatter has quieted notably. Background noise and random sensations don’t pull me out of focus as easily. My reading has began to develop a rhythm, a natural cadence, and it feels easier to stay engaged with the words on the page. It’s quite amazing actually. I’ve found myself pausing to look up new words, getting lost in their meanings, feeling genuinely intrigued rather than overwhelmed. I’m reading faster, feeling less fatigued, and most importantly, I’m actually enjoying it.
It’s opened up a world I’ve been longing for, and I can’t overstate how much that means to me. Alongside improving my relationship with reading, it has given me a surprising new interest in writing.
I’ve realised that I enjoy storytelling and I love feeling like I’m doing something creative. Even when journaling just for myself, I’ve caught myself thinking about how I write, taking satisfaction in the way I shape my thoughts into words. I’ve started admiring certain authors not just for what they say, but for how they say it. And for the first time ever, I’m curious about where I can take my own writing.
So, here we are. I’m writing this blog because I’m finally less shit at reading and because, to my surprise, I enjoy writing. I’m doing this because I think I might have a story worth telling and a journey worth sharing.
Thanks for reading.