Doctors Thought I Was Bipolar. Turns out, It Was ADHD All Along

Doctors Thought I Was Bipolar. Turns out, It Was ADHD All Along

BY GABRIELLE NICOLE PHARMS

“Bipolar II is often misunderstood and misdiagnosed. For me, finally figuring out how to navigate it was life-changing.” 

I smirk, then clench my jaw as I re-read a few lines from my 2022 Huffington Post Voices on “accepting” a bipolar life sentence.

In this Huffington Post essay, I shared my journey of living with this diagnosis, detailing the quiet war between cultural expectations and personal unraveling. At the time, I believed I was finally on the right path. In hindsight, the piece reveals a deeper misdirection: not just clinical error, but the emotional miseducation of Black women taught to be strong instead of self-aware. Sharing that story was an early act of reclamation. And even now, it reminds me how vital it is for Black women to speak our truths, even when the diagnosis itself may still be evolving.

So, are you ready for the plot twist? I’m not bipolar II. I was never bipolar II. 

Last January, I received an updated diagnosis: severe ADHD.

For 16 years, I lived under an incorrect diagnosis, silencing every hunch that something deeper was at play.

Only recently did I learn it was ADHD all along.

My new diagnosis explains the impulsivity I’d mistaken for recklessness, the chronic procrastination that was actually executive dysfunction, my hair-trigger sensitivity to injustice, and the sensory overwhelm that often left me melting down in silence. 

Reflecting on the initial psychiatry visits that led to the misdiagnosis, I exhibited impulsivity, restlessness, and disordered eating, among other commonalities. At 21, after merely 2 visits, the bipolar II diagnosis was bestowed upon me — although I wasn’t asked about my childhood behavior or even the duration of the onset of my symptoms. I naively accepted what the psychiatrist deemed me as and prescribed me with “because he was the expert with the medical degrees.” 

For over a decade, I dismissed this intuitive hunch as my bipolar II attempting to fool me into thinking I was fine. I didn’t know then that underdiagnosis and misdiagnosis of neurodivergence are common, especially in girls and women, and racial minorities, for reasons including societal stigma and clinicians’ implicit biases during medical evaluations.

I’m living proof of how the latter plays out when healthcare providers lack cultural competence and sensitivity.

According to the American Psychological Association’s most recent report, only 5.08% of Black psychologists in the U.S. are Black. While a shared ethnicity doesn’t necessarily guarantee the best therapeutic relationship, you have an increased opportunity to be shown compassion when faced with culturally nuanced stressors.

“If you’re a person of color, specifically a Black woman, you are less likely to find professional help that mirrors your identity or has shared experience or even is trained on cultural competence and cultural sensitivity,” says Dr. Angela Glymph, Ph.D., CEO of Peer Health Exchange, a nonprofit organization focused on youth mental health and education. “Then, what happens is with that lack of understanding of the ‘cultural walk’ of Black women — the societal pressures that are unique to the experience of Black women — could cause reactions to stress.”

To Glymph’s point, it’s the accumulation of life stressors, including the weighty Superwoman schema projected upon Black women, that ultimately contributes to such misdiagnosis, as in my case. Black women often feel the pressure to be strong and resilient, leading us to suppress our mental health struggles until our body manifests this stress into physical symptoms that are then misdiagnosed as psychiatric conditions. 

After experiencing several months of debilitating “analysis paralysis” and emotional dysregulation masquerading as overpowering depression, I shared with my therapist how it had become increasingly difficult or impossible for me to meet work deadlines that usually weren’t a problem. 

After listening to my concerns, my therapist asked if I had ever been tested for ADHD. He explained that many millennial women are receiving ADHD diagnoses in their 30s because of the increased awareness among healthcare professionals and women themselves about the varied ways ADHD can manifest. Thus, many women — including me — realized that their hunches about personality quirks and life shortcomings were substantiated all along.

After multiple visits with a new psychiatrist who specialized in ADHD and taking the QbTest, I was diagnosed with severe inattentive ADHD. Astonished, the psychiatrist asked, “How were you able to hold down two editor roles? What do you credit for being able to achieve these milestones without treatment?” 

I tearfully offered a dubious response in the form of a question, “Divine intervention and grit?” I was just as perplexed as him. 

I began taking Adderall for ADHD alongside my bipolar II meds. At my follow-up, I again expressed my doubts about my bipolar diagnosis. This time, I was met with a deep sigh, followed by, “I suspect you’re not bipolar II. In fact, I think you were never bipolar.” In shock, all I could do was sob in response. 

We decided to test his theory by having me weaned off the two hardcore bipolar II meds I’d been taking for over 15 years. Although I weathered oppressive withdrawal symptoms for months, I was appreciative to finally loosen the shackles of unnecessary medications. I’ve since started CBT therapy to help me get a handle on ADHD symptoms and ways to cope with grieving an identity I once accepted. 

The heaviness of a 16-year misdiagnosis is a double-edged sword: comforting liberation that comes with a hefty price tag. It’s feeling the inflammation of grief in every part of your body from the inside out. 

While my unraveling continues, I’m still discovering emotional truths that lead to hard-earned self-love, which emerged from an ill-fitting label.

It took me nearly a year to be comfortable enough to share my story. Although discussions around mental health aren’t as taboo among the Black community as they were over 20 years ago, there’s still a stigma. Many people suffer in silence while outwardly smiling, laughing, and dancing the night away. Often, family, friends, colleagues, and neighbors are left in the dark, unaware how symptoms of conditions such as ADHD and autism affect our daily lives — until the sufferer’s self-inflicted death comes to light. 

So, why tell my story now?

As a neurodivergent woman and journalist with an inherent sensitivity to mistreatment and penchant for unadulterated authenticity, it’s my responsibility to live the truth while dispelling myths about being “the strong Black woman” and humanizing the mental health challenges faced by marginalized communities. 

“Speaking as a Black woman, I know we’re really the pillars of our community. When we set the tone, folks in our community follow,” says Dr. Glymph. “There is a unique opportunity Black women specifically can play with dispelling stigma, starting with breaking those cycles with the children you’re rearing, educating, or supporting in different ways, and within different community circles.”

There’s an adage floating around chronic illness and mental health support groups that I’ve made my mission from this juncture forward: “I heal loudly because I suffered silently my whole life.” I won’t allow fear of judgment or loss of opportunities to silence me anymore. I’m loud for the loved ones I’ve lost, who masked their despair while suffering in silence.

“Storytelling is part of our culture. That’s how we have survived as a people,” says Dr. Glymph. “You’re sharing your story and uplifting your voice as a part of activism. If you lean into it that way, it becomes less about you, like, ‘Oh, I'm embarrassed,’ but it becomes more about us, like, ‘I'm doing advocacy work.’ So, this is exactly what I need to do.” 

So, I share my story in hopes that one less Black girl or woman feels invisible — that maybe she’s moved to reach out, even if it’s just a whispered text: “Please help.” Additionally, I hope that sharing my story will inspire others to trust their instincts and bodies, and most importantly, advocate and push for the correct care they need. 

While my original Huffington Post essay no longer reflects the full truth of my journey, its moral still holds: we must advocate for ourselves, and we must speak our stories aloud. That’s how we save lives. I also share this as a love letter to baby Gabby — proof that she was never alone, and always, always heard.

BIO: Gabrielle Nicole Pharms is an award-winning, Texas-based writer, columnist, and brand storyteller whose work lives at the intersection of culture, music, and lifestyle.