Why I Will Always Be a Little Mad

This has been festering inside me for a long time. I’ve brought it up with D before, but how do you tell someone you’re quietly furious with the people who made him?

Here is the truth:  I will always be a little mad at D’s parents.

D has lived his entire life with unchecked ADHD, depression, and anxiety. His whole life. Even in our first decade of marriage, it went untreated—because his family normalized his struggles and brushed off his symptoms. This was ingrained into him as just “part of who he was.” They made him feel like his frustration, his brain fog, his emotional spirals were just personality quirks. Not symptoms that could actually be treated.

Have I mentioned that D passes out sometimes? And by sometimes, I mean once every six to twelve months. Almost always triggered by stress.

The first time I saw it happen was when our oldest was less than a year old. We had been together for a little over a year. (Yes, do the math—we moved fast. No regrets.)

Anyway, I did what any normal human being would do: I called an ambulance. He ended up in the ER, kept overnight, and had to recover from passing out… all while trying to calm me down, because I was freaking out. And he just kept saying, “It’s no big deal. I do this all the time.”

What?

Apparently, that wasn’t an exaggeration. His parents and grandparents backed it up: “Oh yeah, he’s always done that. It’s fine.” NO. No, it’s not fine. It’s not normal to pass out because of stress or emotion or pressure.

And here’s the part that’s hardest for me to admit:  I failed, too.  I let it slide for ten years.

We were young, overwhelmed. Two kids within the first three years of marriage. And just when we thought maybe we’d find our footing, surprise baby number three came along. They’re our favorite surprise, but if they’d arrived first, this blog would be called ‘Why We Stopped at One.’

All throughout those years—babyhood, toddlerhood, chaos—D kept passing out.

• When our oldest broke his arm at age five? D passed out.
• During a massive argument between us? D passed out.
• Super stressed at work? Yup. Passed out again.

He didn’t tell me about the work incidents until way later. He didn’t want me to worry. Which I get, but also: what the hell!?

Every time I asked, the family line was the same: “He’s always done this.” It was even tied back to losing a baby tooth and seeing blood as a child. So we’re talking decades of this and no one… not once… thought to take him to a doctor?

I bring this up now because we’re finally getting answers. We’ve ruled out a lot with specialists and appointments, and we have another coming up soon. All signs point to PNES—Psychogenic Non-Epileptic Seizures. What’s the treatment for PNES?

• Cognitive therapy.
• Managing anxiety
• Addressing depression
• Supporting ADHD

Basically—everything he’s been untreated for his entire life.

And that’s what breaks me.

Because it didn’t have to be this hard for him. He didn’t have to spend his childhood in panic, his teens confused, and his twenties white-knuckling his way through every stressor like he’s drowning.

If someone had just paid attention. If someone had just cared enough to ask a doctor. If someone had stepped in and said, “This isn’t normal, let’s figure it out.”

But instead, he was emotionally neglected. In some ways, physically, too. Left to fend for himself. Left to guess at what a support system even is. No coping skills. No safe space.

And the real kicker? The people who raised him aren’t villains. They’re loving in the ways they know how, and I believe they care deeply. But they simply didn’t and still don’t have the tools—or the emotional capacity—to show up with empathy, much less the kind of unconditional love D truly needed.

Love often came with conditions: how he behaved, how he appeared, how his struggles reflected back on them. So when D finally opened up about his diagnosis and everything he had been carrying, the response wasn’t: “How can I support you?” or “I’m so sorry.” It was, “Is this my fault?” Not out of guilt—but out of fear it might tarnish their image.

So yeah. I will always be a little mad.

Witnessing him rebuild a sense of self he was never given—I can’t help but grieve what could’ve been.

He deserved better.
He still does.

🎉Shoutout to cognitive therapy—D hasn’t fainted in twenty months. Turns out addressing your trauma keeps you vertical.