Matthew Smith [Inconnu(e)] - Hyperactive: The Controversial History of ADHD

h y p e r a c t i v e HYPERACTIVE THE CONTROVERSIAL HISTORY OF ADHD Matthew Smith reaktion books To my mother, who always stuck up for me, and to Dashiell, who bounced his way through the writing of this book Published by Reaktion Books Ltd 33 Great Sutton Street London ec1v 0dx, uk www.reaktionbooks.co.uk First published 2012 Copyright Matthew Smith 2012 All rights reserved No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers. Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ International, Padstow, Cornwall British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Smith, Matthew, 1973 Hyperactive : the controversial history of ADHD 1. Attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder History. 2. Attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder Etiology. 3.

Attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder Treatment History. I. Title 618.9'28589dc23 isbn: 978 1 78023 031 3 Contents Preface Historians do not have to have a personal connection to what they research, but when they do, it is appropriate that it is laid bare to be examined. If one picks up a social history of Britain, it is helpful to know if the author has ties to a particular political party. If one is reading a history of Israel, the authors opinions about the building of new Israeli settlements could be pertinent. And if one is reading about the history of medicine, especially by a historian who is interested in placing the history of health and medicine in its cultural, social and political contexts, it is appropriate that the context of my own investigations is revealed.

So, why am I interested in hyperactivity? I was not aware of such a thing growing up and going to school in the 1980s. I remember problem kids, and might have even been one on occasion, but never recalled such boys or girls being referred to as hyperactive, or being labelled with any other disorder. Bad kids were simply bad kids, at least as far as I was concerned. Attending school during the years in which disabled children were being included in mainstream classrooms, I do remember children who we, and the teachers, referred to as retarded, but none of these children seemed particularly hyperactive. I know now that many of these children had either Downs Syndrome, were suffering from a brain injury or were seriously learning disabled. h y p e r a c t i v e This did not go over well with my mom and I began grade one in a different school, where my learning disability, so-called, remained forever hidden. h y p e r a c t i v e This did not go over well with my mom and I began grade one in a different school, where my learning disability, so-called, remained forever hidden.

Instead, the first hyperactive kid I met knowingly, I met as an adult. He sticks out in my memory for many reasons, not least because we shared a first name and he looked a little bit like I did at his age, which was about six or seven. I was a nervous student teacher at a middling primary school; he was one of my students. And there was no question that he was an active little boy. If he had his druthers, I am confident that Matthew would have happily bounced around the classroom, sharpening his pencil, looking out the window, trying on all the other kids boots, investigating what was kept in the corner cupboard and generally doing his best impression of a perpetual motion machine from the time of the principals welcoming address on the pa system to the dinging of the home-time bell. It was as if sitting at his desk quietly was anathema to him, an abhorrent condition to be avoided at all cost.

I have to admit that, when I was in charge of the classroom, Matthews escapades did not annoy me a great deal. He tended not to bother the other kids terribly much and, while roaming around the room did not help him complete his work, neither did forcing him to sit in his seat. Sternly ordering Matthew to remain seated at his desk merely generated an impressive and, to all but the sternest pedagogue, amusing set of contortions in the boy as he found ways to balance his chair on one of its legs, while keeping only the index finger of one hand in contact with his desk. He could follow instructions, it appeared, just his own interpretation of them. But while I was content to let him do his thing, finding a few minutes when possible to work with him individually, it was clear that my supervising teacher was not. Usually a calm, gentle woman who was slow to lose her temper, seeing Matthew the student perform balancing acts worthy of Cirque du Soleil, and Matthew the student teacher turning a blind eye, would cause her to cry out: Matthew, what are you doing?! I was never sure which one of us she had in mind.

At the end of my term I returned to the university to complete the theoretical component of my education degree, and was bemused by p r e f a c e the contradictory approaches to behavioural problems presented to us by the Department of Education Psychology. Whereas some professors stated that the only worthwhile approach was to instil a rigid behavioural regimen of positive and negative reinforcement, others advocated a humanistic approach that was much more child centred and still others favoured developmental and cognitive theories. A month later, returning to visit the classroom in which I had been teaching, I discovered that there was yet another approach. When I entered the room, the first thing I noticed was that Matthew had a different desk from all of the other students. They had replaced his two-piece desk, in which the chair and desk were separate, with one in which the chair was welded to the desk no more circus routines for him. The second thing that struck me was that Matthew was still, sitting quietly at his desk and staring at a spot on the chalkboard.

Unlike the other children, he did not seem to notice me, preferring, perhaps, to remain in his own little world. Matthew seems quiet today, I ventured to my supervising teacher. Yes, she replied, hes been put on Ritalin. For his hyperactivity. Hes much easier to handle these days. I nodded, but was not sure that I liked what I saw.

Sure, he was quiet, still, not bothering anyone. But where was his energy, his bounce, his vitality? Where was the kid that made me laugh in spite of myself? The kid who was so creative during art class and who excelled at gym? His behaviour was certainly less disruptive, but I wanted to see the other Matthew. I did not return to the classroom for any more visits. It was not long before I encountered hyperactivity again. Feeling discouraged after my teacher training, I had opted for a job as a youth counsellor with the ymca, helping teenagers who had dropped out of school. A large part of my job was helping these young people access government funding so that they could return to school.

In navigating the complex funding structure, it soon be came apparent to me and my colleagues that if a funding applicant was diagnosed with a disability, he/she not only had a much better chance of getting approved but also was given more leeway in terms of making academic progress. A disability diagnosis was a veritable get-out-of-jail-free card. Soon a good part of my day was devoted to 9 h y p e r a c t i v e spotting youth who might have such a disability, and hyperactivity was the disorder we most commonly identified. For the most part, I saw little problem with this strategy. My job was to help troubled youth, kids who came from abusive back grounds, had been involved in drugs, crime and gangs and who had often been homeless or in prison, to improve their lives. A hyper activity diagnosis greased the wheels of bureaucracy; whether the kids we labelled were hyperactive or not mattered little to me if they got their lives back on track.