It Took Me Months To Get the ADHD Meds the DEA Says Are Overprescribed
The Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) has been warning that prescription stimulant abuse could be the next opioid epidemic. After a monthslong quest to get my hands on some legally, I can report back that the agency’s fears are not only overblown; they are hurting people who legitimately need medication.
Bloomberg reported last week that a senior DEA official saw the early signs of a drug abuse crisis in the increased demand for stimulants, which are commonly used to treat attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) and narcolepsy:
“I’m not trying to be a doomsday-er here,” said Matthew Strait, deputy assistant administrator in the diversion control division said in an online seminar. But he compared the current situation with stimulants to the beginning of the opioid crisis and said “it makes me feel like we’re at the precipice of our next drug crisis in the United States.”
Among the factors Strait cited were stimulant abuse, the lack of standard guidelines for diagnosing ADHD, unscrupulous telehealth companies and internet advertisements, and more manufacturers making the drugs. Bloomberg reported that the agency is drafting regulations to restrict telehealth prescriptions.
I read Strait’s comments with a mixture of amusement and outrage, because this year I went through the laborious process of getting diagnosed and prescribed medication for adult ADHD.
I don’t remember when a doctor first diagnosed me with ADHD. It was probably in first or second grade. I have a vague memory of a doctor, not my regular pediatrician, asking me a bunch of questions. The doctor then explained in careful sentences that I had “attention deficit disorder.” (This was before the “H” was added.) I don’t remember what I thought back then about having a disorder. I don’t recall it being a blow to my self-esteem. I was precocious and unflappable. I liked being me, and this was just another thing about me. I had brown hair. I wore glasses. I had attention deficit disorder.
I wasn’t an idiot, though; I knew why I’d been sent to a special doctor. My teachers complained that I didn’t stay on task, and it was creating problems in the classroom.
I didn’t think there was anything unreasonable about being bored in school or fidgeting when the teachers refused to let me doodle, but I also knew time got away from me in strange ways. I often got lost in thought, staring into space while the rest of the world moved like a VHS tape on fast-forward. I forgot things constantly. Things I should remember to do, things I wanted and intended to do, obligations to friends and family. They all flitted out of my mind, making me seem thoughtless, lazy, and rude. Chores and homework piled up. Deadlines were missed. My desk drawers became stuffed with organizational notebooks and planners given to me by the well-meaning women in my life.
I struggled in college as the amount of long-term projects and research papers increased. I could watch myself fail classes, but I couldn’t seem to stop it from happening. When I was offered a newspaper fellowship that requ
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