It was a Tuesday morning in April. I was enveloped in my bed sheets like a caterpillar in a cocoon. I had been staring at the ceiling for 30 minutes in complete silence. I was listening to all the sounds around me: Cars zooming down the road outside; dogs barking at one another after their eyes met; the sounds of residents laughing outside. I exhaled deeply. I hadn’t heard that sound in a while. Must be nice.
I looked at the clock on my desk. It was 10:30 a.m. Great. Another late start to my day. And yet, I still did not move. I simply couldn’t. I was always able to find a way to get up, but not this time. It felt as if my body was too heavy. Like the weight of taking on the day was too much to bear.
I was supposed to get up around 7:30 that morning to catch up on my assignments, but I turned my alarm off, turned over and went back to sleep. I never set another alarm. I had been doing that pretty often the past few weeks.
My phone rang. It was my father calling me on FaceTime. Crap.
Tuesday was one of his days off that week. I sat up, rubbed my hand across my forehand and sighed. If he saw me in bed still, he’d think something was wrong.
I sprang out from under my covers and ran to my desk. I figured if I sat at my desk, he wouldn’t assume I just woke up. I answered the call. “Hey Daddy!” I tried to sound and look as awake as possible.
“Hey baby!” He moved the phone closer to his face. “Did you just wake up? You don’t usually sleep this late.”
He noticed, so there was no point in denying it. “Yes sir. I overslept, but I’m up now.”
He had a confused look on his face. “Brielle. It’s Tuesday. Don’t you have class work you need to get done?”
I sighed. He was right again. “Yes sir. I have some things to get done, but it’s no rush. I’ll get it done.”
His confused look quickly turned to worry. “Brielle Monique, is everything OK?”
“Yes sir. Everything is OK.”
“No, everything is not OK. Tell me what’s wrong.”
To answer him honestly, I had to go back to the beginning – last March. The pandemic had not sunk its teeth into me yet. I had just returned to Denton from visiting family in Houston for spring break. News outlets and organizations were reporting on the coronavirus, but until that point, everything seemed pretty much normal.
About a week later, things changed. UNT made all its classes either remote or completely online, essentially closing the campus. The state government required us to wear masks anytime we stepped outside our homes. It also put us on lockdown, causing everyone break out into a frenzy and clean out the stores of essential items such as toilet paper, water and nonperishables. I had to go to five stores just to find a few rolls of toilet paper and some instant noodles. I was supposed to study abroad in Japan that summer, however, the trip was canceled because of travel restrictions. And all of this happened in less than two weeks.
For me, the worst of it was the lockdown. Not because I was stuck inside my apartment with nothing to do but homework, watch TV and stare at my walls. But because I was stuck inside my apartment with nothing to do but homework, watch TV and stare at my walls -- with ADHD.
Unable to sit still. Unable to focus on tasks. Talking way too much. A short attention span. By the age of six, I exhibited all these symptoms. My doctor officially diagnosed me with attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder.
My parents were very supportive about the diagnosis, especially my dad. My mom made sure I also took my medication and stayed on top of things, but my dad always made sure I still felt like myself. He made sure to let me know that having ADHD wasn’t something to be seen as a setback, but it was something that would make me more unique in this world. He would always say, “God doesn’t make mistakes. Everything happens for a reason. And don’t forget, you can do all things through Christ who strengthens you. Remember that.” And for the most part, I did.
My dad gave me my first taste of religion with that statement. But it didn’t stop there. I went to church with him almost every Sunday. He taught me how to recite The Lord’s Prayer before going to bed, to thank God for waking me up every morning and to say grace before every meal. He gave me my sense of faith and my faith gave me structure.
The medication gave me some structure as well. The older I got, the higher the dosage increased to combat the symptoms so I could function at home and at school. At 18, I decided I would no longer take medication and “train” myself to focus and sit still without it. The key to this plan’s success – recreating the structure I had while taking the medication: Wake up at a certain time, eat breakfast, school/work, eat lunch, more school/work, go home, do homework/work, eat dinner, shower, watch TV, go to bed, and repeat.
It worked throughout my undergraduate years at Stephen F. Austin State University to my first year as a graduate student at the University of North Texas. It didn’t stop working until, you guessed it, last March.
I didn’t have to get up at a certain time anymore because I couldn’t go to campus, so I stopped setting alarms. I stayed in my room all day, every day, with no change of scenery unless I went to the grocery store, so I wore baggy T-shirts and sweatpants. I was unable to focus due to the constant silence surrounding me in my bedroom, so homework assignments took longer to complete because I would get distracted or just watch TV instead.
I had no sense of structure anymore. No way for me to separate things in my brain anymore. My bedroom went from being just a place of relaxation to being a place of school, work and relaxation.
It felt as though I had no escape. No escape from the constant silence, the constant loneliness and the constant repetition of doing nothing. No escape from my inner thoughts, my emotions or the constant lack of motivation. It was draining me, but because it became the new normal, I didn’t even notice the shift.
Not until that phone call from my father on that Tuesday morning in April.
“Everything will be over sooner than later,” Dad said. “You just have to stayed motivated. Find a way to get out of your apartment safely. Alright baby? Stop crying.”
I wiped the tears from my eyes and nodded my head in agreement. I didn’t intend to cry, but somehow, I did, and I felt so much lighter afterward. I always do after talking with my father.
We chatted for a little bit more, shared a few laughs and then ended the call. He never ends a call unless he knows I’m absolutely OK, or at least that I would be. After our conversation, I had a feeling that I would be.
I looked on my desk and saw my Bible. It had been sitting there for the last month untouched. Something told me to open it, so I did. I opened to the last scripture I had read, which happened to be my favorite – Philippians 4:13: I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. The same statement my dad always told me to remember.
It was as if God was speaking to me. Like he knew I needed the encouragement. And He was right. I did need the “pick-me-up” to give me a new sense of structure.
I began setting my alarm again to slowly bring back some structure. I would get up every morning at 7:25 and read my Bible to start the day with a little encouragement. Then I would get dressed and walk around my apartment complex. I would come in to eat breakfast, and I would start my day by doing either work or classwork. I would take a break at some point during the day by watching an episode of a show or listening to music for at least 30 minutes while I would eat lunch and then again when I ate dinner. I started calling my parents every day like I used to.
My sense of structure was slowly returning, and with it, I began to slowly return to normal. The usual dread of getting up in the morning began to disappear and the heaviness along with it.
It was a Thursday morning in May. I quickly turned off my alarm to get rid of the annoying beeps. It was 7:25. My bed sheets began to slide off as I stretched. I had been staring at the ceiling for 15 minutes in complete silence. Listening to all the sounds around me: Cars zooming down the road outside; the loud sound of the garbage truck picking up the dumpster; and the sounds of residents laughing outside. A smile crept across my face. My, what a nice sound that was. What a great way to start the day.
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