What It’s Like Living with PTSD and ADHD: A Neurodivergent Perspective.

Mindfulness Practice “Doodle” by MIGO

When I first started untangling the knot of what was going on inside of me. Always feeling socially off, living on edge, overstimulated, really just wired “differently.” It was partially because I didn’t have the right language. More so because everything that I’d done to get me to that point wasn’t working anymore.

Following a suicide attempt, psychiatric medications to stabilize my mind, and psychotherapy, the “language” came: PTSD. Five years into therapy; ADHD, autism, and neurodivergence. Before the language, that would soon be a blueprint of better understanding. This internal chaos I lived with. Trying to function, trying to survive this thing we call life.

What follows isn’t a clinical deep dive. It’s me, putting language to lived experiences. Rooting personal truth in researched understanding. Trying to share how I’ve come to see my own mind. Not as something broken, but as something worth understanding. Something I never thought I’d live to see. That I now find profound and beautiful.

In 2015, I was diagnosed with PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder). It’s something I lived with long before I had the language for it. The clinical definition, from places like the National Institute of Mental Health, says it’s what happens when your nervous system stays stuck in survival mode after the danger is gone. But for me, it felt more like walking around in a body with constant hyper-vigilance. Being triggered by simple, day-to-day tasks that would throw me into a loop of visually reliving traumatic experiences. Out of desperation, I’d latched onto numbing, specifically drugs and alcohol, to remove myself from my mentally suffocating reality.

ADHD, on the other hand, is one of those things that gets joked about—“I’m so ADHD today!” Living with it doesn’t feel like a joke at all. Learning that I also had ADHD gave me a blueprint in understanding how I can better navigate the world. It’s not just forgetting your keys or losing focus. According to the CDC, it’s a neurodevelopmental disorder (I dislike that word, by the way, but I digress) that impacts everything from how I organize my thoughts to how I emotionally regulate. It also meant deep emotional sensitivity, bursts of hyperfocus, and creative disarray. For instance, it’s normal for me to have 15 creative projects going at once. Truth be told, having several tasks going on at one time is a massage to my brain. One thing keeping my attention for any extended period of time? Not my superpower.

Getting a better grip on my PTSD helped me understand that my ADHD (a form of autism), when navigated with wisdom, can be a gift. Especially when that energy is honed into healthy outlets like; mindfulness practices, physical activity, or creative expression. Autism isn’t one thing. It is a spectrum. And not the kind that moves from “high-functioning” to “low-functioning.” The Autism Self Advocacy Network and other organizations are shifting how we talk about it, reminding us it’s a range of sensory, social, and communication differences that show up uniquely in each individual.

I wasn’t diagnosed young, so for most of my life I just thought I was “different.” Lacking an understanding of what was appropriate to say in social settings, missing social cues, being hyper-focused in thought, or self-soothing. An example of that was rubbing my lip with what I called “the woogie” (a soft cloth) when I was overstimulated by social noise. I didn’t stop using this thing until years into therapy. I was in my late thirties. No judgment, just stating facts. Wanna find a quick way to get out of a new dating relationship or perhaps lose a job? Get stuck in a meditative trance rubbing your lip a few times. Man, do I have stories. But again, I digress.

Being on the spectrum meant my nervous system picked up on things others missed. Having a better understanding now of how I’m hard-wired in comparison to most people in society is helping me learn how to better advocate for myself in places that weren’t built with me in mind. I’ve learned that being neurodivergent just means my brain functions differently than what’s considered “typical.”

ADHD and autism aren’t separate planets in the neurodivergent galaxy. They often orbit each other in the same nervous system. What I’ve come to learn is that ADHD (Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder) is actually considered part of the neurodivergent spectrum. And while not everyone with ADHD is autistic, there’s a lot of shared terrain. Both impact how we regulate attention, process sensory input, manage emotions, and relate to social expectations. According to research, a significant number of people with autism also meet the criteria for ADHD and vice versa (Leitner, 2014).

What makes it harder is how we’ve historically separated them in public perception. ADHD is often seen as “fidgety” or “distracted,” while autism gets labeled as socially awkward or rigid. Now that I’m navigating ADHD, I’ve learned and recognize now how both are rooted in nervous systems that interact with the world differently. Often more intensely than the so-called neurotypical mind.

Being neurodivergent just means your brain functions differently than the majority. Neurotypical folks? They operate closer to the center of what society expects in terms of social behavior, emotional regulation, attention span, and sensory processing. But if you’re neurodivergent; whether from ADHD, autism, or dyslexia—you, like myself, might find that your nervous system doesn’t move through the world in the “expected” way.

Through all of this: untangling trauma, understanding my wiring, redefining what “normal” means. One thing that therapy helped me to recognize is that my mind becomes chaotic being in the past or the future. When I dwell on the past, my mood dips. When I fixate on the future, I spiral into anxiety and hyperfocus, chasing “what ifs” that may never come. That tug-of-war between rumination and projection created an inner chaos that made it nearly impossible to be at ease.

Through therapy, being guided to gradually trade out numbing behaviors with healthy coping mechanisms, and the practice of mindfulness, my mind and nervous system are more regulated. I’ve learned how to be with what is, without judgment or urgency to fix it. Mindfulness has become a way of grounding. Reminding my nervous system that right here, right now, I am safe. It’s not a cure-all, but it’s been a lifeline. A practice that helps me return to myself when everything else feels too much.

None of these labels: PTSD, ADHD, autism are the full story. They’re not the entirety of who I am. When I speak of who I am, I reference my character, morals, and creativity. These labels are not the enemy either. The shame often associated with them is the true enemy.

Understanding the common features of these labels has become a sort of guide I now use to navigate the world more gently. To advocate for my needs more clearly. To give myself more grace.

Being neurodivergent doesn’t mean I’m broken. It means I move through this world with a different rhythm, a different filter, a different kind of awareness. In a society that wasn’t exactly built with folks like me in mind, learning to understand and care for my wiring isn’t just survival—it’s liberation.

References:

Leitner, Y. (2014). The co-occurrence of autism and attention deficit hyperactivity disorder in children – what do we know? Frontiers in Human Neuroscience, 8, 268. https://doi.org/10.3389/fnhum.2014.00268