Shameless

Selena Loureiro


I was 13 when I decided I wanted to be smart.

  

School had gotten harder; Math made less sense, I could barely stay awake in science, and I could never quite wrap my head around grammar in French. My grades kept falling, because, more than anything, I had a hard time focusing. 

 

I’d fade in and out of attention, miss important dates and deadlines. I rarely studied for tests and spent most of my time in my own head. I let myself stay distracted because I did well in the things I liked and thought that was enough. 

 

Until, of course, it wasn’t. 

 

I had a teacher come up to me before class one day. She said, “I’m not sure why you don’t try, Selena, because I know if you did, you would definitely thrive.”

 

And from then on, being smart became important.

 

I started trying harder. I suddenly had a reason to do better.

 

(For the teacher who believed in me, and the friends who seemed smarter than me, and the parents who encouraged me—)

 

I still couldn’t focus in class, still missed deadlines, still failed sometimes, and that wasn’t okay but at least I was trying. 

 

And trying seemed to be enough.

 

By the end of the school year, I managed to pull my grades up. My efforts were rewarded at my Grade Eight graduation when I received a shiny gold plaque for Most Improved Student. I was elated.  

 

(This was my proof; proof I was more, could do more, that I measured up to the friends I’d admired—)

 

I told a friend I’d gotten my first 90, smiling excitedly, grasping my plaque and report card like they were something precious. She sent me a strange look, a mix of confusion and what seemed like distaste. She showed me hers. There wasn’t a single mark below 90. 

I’ve been wearing a mask as of late, though I’m not quite sure when I started putting it on. 

 

It feels, at this point, like a second skin, a second nature, one I wish I could never take off. 

 

It’s a perfect disguise, one I hide behind, because I’m not too fond of what lies underneath. 

 

Behind my mask, I bleed chaos, and that is far from who I wish to be.

At 14, I decided trying was no longer enough.

(Trying didn’t leave me with all 90s, you see—)


—No, if I wanted to be smart, I needed to do more; to try more, to be more, to accomplish far more than the mediocrity I’d resigned myself to before. 


I started chasing a dream. 


What I wanted, more than anything else, was to be that girl; the responsible, reliable, and dependable one. The one in every academic club, the one whose name was always on the honour roll list at the front of the school. 

(The one with all 90s on her report card—)

Perhaps, my only true dream was to be that perfect student. 

 

And so, I began my chase. From my grades, I’d accept nothing but As. I joined the debate club, the law club, and the student council, and was even elected president of one at 15. My name never left the honour roll list. For all accounts and purposes, I had achieved my goal. 

 

(But then why was I so exhausted? Why did I keep failing? Why did I forget that test, that project, that promise I said—)

I really should have known—I keep telling myself that.

 

The signs were all there; in my twitching hands and tapping feet, 

 

in my inability to be the person I strived to be. 

 

I kept running and chasing and hunting this goal, 

 

but it ate me alive.

Disappointing. Underwhelming. Stupid and naive. The words all rang out in my mind. 

 

I might have gotten results, but I couldn’t be farther from the student I wanted to be. I zoned out too much and crammed for just about every test. I did virtually every project last minute, cursing myself all the while for not getting started earlier. I had the same focus issues, the same attention issues, the same inability to sit down and work. But despite all that, I still expected myself to ace every test, to get 90s on every project. 

 

In my mind, perfection wasn’t the goal, it was the expectation.

 

So I hid myself behind a mask. One of polite smiles and pretty notes. I had plenty of friends but few I kept all that close. Because I didn’t want them to see—

(I didn’t want them to know—)

 —what lay behind my mask, the—

(anger, hatred, sadness—)

—chaos it would expose.

And when it all became too much, I’d retreat back to my room, back to the four grey walls I knew too well, and sink into my thoughts.

 

And I did this often. 

 

Because it was far easier to be isolated than to have to live with a mask on.

The guilt kept welling up. 

I kept failing. I was a club president for 3 years and tried to back out after every single one. 


(They kept saying we didn’t need a re-election, that they were happy with me there. But how could that be when I kept messing up, and missing deadlines, and barely managed to keep up—)

 

My 12th-grade writing teacher yelled at me for not handing a project in on time. 

I was told that it was unacceptable, that I was too old to be doing that kind of thing, that I’d never survive in University.

 

(I’d stared at that computer screen for hours, but my mind wouldn’t let me type, and I’d stayed up all night, but I couldn’t get a word down on the page, and I’d procrastinated all day but there wasn’t a moment when I didn’t hate myself for it—)

Covid was a nightmare.

My motivation disappeared. I spent every day in a haze, trapped in my own mind. I had plenty of time to do my school work, and online classes were few and far between, but despite all of that I sat on the couch in my living room scrolling on my phone.

 

(I was paralyzed, head filled with fog, dazed and exhausted. I did nothing but rest but I never felt rested. In those moments, I wanted nothing more than to do something; to pull myself away from my screen and do anything other than sink into the haze, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t control myself.)

 

And I couldn’t say anything either, to my friends, my parents, or my teachers. How could I say that I just couldn’t get myself to finish a project when I was a perfectly capable—perfectly normal—individual?

(No, I was just lazy and irresponsible. There couldn’t have been anything else—)

 

I wore the mask all the time, then, around my family and friends, but not because I wanted to; I was just too ashamed of the person I was underneath to let myself be anything else. 

My brain is a mess—it’s a disaster—and I hate myself for not trying harder, but I live on low-power mode, and I’m not sure I can push myself further.

 

And in my mind, all I can think is that I’m an imposter, wearing a perfect disguise. Because no one seems to recognize that I’m failing,

 

that I’m falling, 


until I’m already drowning.

I was 19 when I was diagnosed with ADHD.


I got frustrated with myself in my first year of University. I did well enough, but I was still unfocused, still disorganized. I still let things go overdue and sometimes I didn’t hand them in at all. And I couldn’t take it anymore. I had no idea why I was like this, why I couldn’t just do the things I wanted to do, I needed to do, I was supposed to enjoy doing. 


When I stumbled onto a description of ADHD, it didn’t take me long to realize I wasn’t the so-called ‘normal’ student I made myself out to be. 


But it wasn’t easy accepting this new understanding of myself. I’d spent 19 years of my life conditioned to believe that the reason I wasn’t succeeding, the reason I wasn’t smart— 

(—the reason I needed to put on that damn mask—)

 

—was because I wasn’t trying hard enough. I’d gotten stuck on the idea that I would thrive if I sat down and tried—

(—and I was trying. I tried so damn hard—)

 

In reality, my brain never worked that way. But realizing and accepting that wasn’t something I could just do. 

 

I fight with myself every day. I’ve tried all kinds of coping strategies—meditation, exercise, cognitive behavioural therapy—I’m doing everything I can. And I have done better. I’ve gotten better grades, won awards, and even gotten published a few times. But none of that has meant anything to me, because there hasn’t been a moment where I’ve done something “perfectly”.

 

I procrastinated and asked for extensions, sent emails, called helplines, and struggled with myself every single day to achieve what I wanted, but no matter what I did, I wasn’t my “ideal”. No matter how much I’ve achieved, I’ve never lived up to the person I made my mask to be; The perfect student I’ve always wanted to be. I’d chastise myself for needing help, for not meeting my towering expectations…

for being neurodivergent. 

Disappointing. Underwhelming. Stupid and naive. I had absolutely no empathy for myself. I didn’t think I deserved it. I thought that because everyone around me was so accommodating I had to be the one to punish myself. And I did that with guilt.

 

I let those words taunt my mind like a broken record, screeching over the radio static that echoes through my never-silent head, etching itself into the grooves of my brain.

(—loud, convincing, and ever-present.)

 

But there is one word that I always get stuck on. One word that seems to echo through my mind the loudest.

 

Shameless.

 

More than anything else, I call myself shameless. 

 

Shameless for going AWOL to try and cope with my workload. Shameless for asking for extensions long after the project is due, because my executive dysfunction just wouldn’t let me do it. Shameless for forgetting promises, for being late, for asking for help, for telling myself I’ll change but never being able to. 

 

I tell myself I’m so shameless it’s disgusting. 

 

But I am 21 and coming to realize that maybe that’s okay. 

 

I am smart. I am capable. I am good at what I do. I’ve been trying to replace the words in my head with those. But it’s not easy—it’s never been harder, actually. 

 

All I’ve wanted for years was to be that person: the responsible one, the reliable one, that one people know they can depend on. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be. And it kills me that I am that person sometimes—that I am capable enough to be that person—but never consistently. 

 

But that is me; that is my ADHD. 

 

I’ve come a long way, but I’m still not a great student. I work hard, I participate and I try my best, but my best isn’t perfect. It isn’t reliable, or consistent, even moderately so. My mind is a constant mess of stress, and guilt, and hate, and to be honest it keeps me up at night. 

 

And when I didn’t know what it was, I would hide it. Quell my chaotic mind behind a mask as best as I could and hope that people wouldn’t realize just how frustrated I was behind it. But if I’ve learnt anything  through all of this, through three years of targeted effort in learning to better manage my symptoms, it’s that being shameless might just be the best thing I can do for myself. 

 

Because to me, being shameless is having the courage to ask for help—

(—even when I don’t think I deserve it.)

 

It means I don’t have to drown myself in guilt—

 

(—even if I believe I deserve it.)

 

It means I can forgive myself for being neurodivergent. 

 

And I know I deserve that. 

 

To me, being shameless is having the courage to say, “I might not be the person I ‘aspire’ to be, I might fail, and I might succeed, but no matter what, I know I’m trying my best—even if my best isn’t always the same in any given moment.” 

 

To me, being shameless is having the courage to say “I am not perfect, and I will need help, and that’s okay.”

 

In the end, this is my life, this is my mind. This is my struggle and I struggle with it every day. This isn’t a cry for help, nor is it supposed to portray my issues as if they’re worse than anything anyone else is going through. But if you are like me, and you’ve called yourself shameless for living in a way that doesn’t meet your expectations, for asking for help, for forgiving yourself, I hope you know that can be a good thing. I hope you can be proud of that shamelessness, as I’m learning to do myself. 

 

So I will keep failing and feeling guilty and failing and feeling guilty and failing and feeling guilty, but through all of that, I hope I become even more shameless. Shameless enough to rip off that mask and love myself even if I don’t think I deserve it. 

 

Shameless enough to believe I do.