I had my own reading group in kindergarten. I was starting chapter books--the beginner's books, with large font and even larger pictures. I loved to read, and I was good at it. The only hard part was sitting still.

In first grade I learned cursive. I wasn't supposed to learn until third grade, but I was focused and eager and I wanted to learn (as long as what I was learning was engaging).

I moved in second grade, to a new town with a new school with a better program for TAG kids. I quickly made friends in the accelerated classes I was taking, and read and wrote and talked constantly. I loved it.

In third grade I was asked to stay inside for recess. "You have to clean out your desk, Hope, it won't even close." My desk was neatly organized, but filled with school supplies, homework, and seven unfinished books. "Hope, why do you have so many books? Pick your favorite and finish it. You'd be surprised how awesome they get toward the end!" But I didn't like the books. How could I read a book if I couldn't concentrate enough to get through the first chapter?

In fourth grade I cried in class. My most recent math quiz stared back at me, daring me to challenge the ominous blue letter at the top of the page. It loomed over my head and pressed more weight than I could handle into my shoulders, teasing me, telling me I would have done better if I had only tried harder, studied better, listened more. I always thought "F" was short for "fantastic." I guess it's also short for "Failure."

I was the best writer in the fifth grade. The fifth grade class was only 80 people, but I was at the top. In science, however, I started to slip. My parents were called: "Hope has about twenty missing assignments. I really want to give her a passing grade, but I need her to turn in all of the assignments in order to do so. I can print all of them out again, but I really need her to try."

I had to redo the biggest English project sixth graders were assigned. Apparently I "hadn't put in enough effort." I had to sit outside of class in seventh grade because I was talking during a movie. Apparently I was "too distracted." I had to be forced to study my eighth grade vocabulary words. Apparently I was "lazy and disorganized."

In ninth grade I "wasn't living up to my potential."

In tenth grade I "wasn't living up to my potential."

In eleventh grade I "wasn't living up to my potential."

They were right. I was lazy. Unfocused. Distracted. I had a perpetual problem with procrastination. I needed to turn in my homework. I needed to listen more. I needed to study. I needed to make like Nike and "just do it."

In twelfth grade I was diagnosed with Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder. I had a chemical imbalance in my brain, preventing my from being able to focus, from being attentive, from being able to "just do it." It wasn't my fault.

No one seemed to realize how hard it was for me to concentrate. I wanted to do well, I was very motivated, but for some reason I could not force myself to start my work. I was always late to appointments and my homework was never done on time. The diagnosis helped me regain my confidence. They had been wrong. Everyone had been wrong. I was not lazy, I was different.

In twelfth grade I received medication to help me stay focused during the day. I work harder, stay more organized, and turn my homework in on time. I am not as distracted at work and my test scores have gone up significantly. I was worried that getting tested for AD/HD was too much of a risk--that I would end up being "normal" and all of these symptoms were my own fault. I was worried that everyone had been right about me. I was worried that if I did have this disorder, the label would be slapped across my forehead and would sit there like an annoying pimple: demanding attention during conversations; the hardest part of looking in a mirror. I was worried that awards and scholarships given to me after the diagnosis would stem from pity--that they would be ripped from the grasp of a deserving student and handed to me on a platter with an "I'm sorry you have a learning disability" greeting card..."Here's $500 dollars!" I was worried, but I got tested anyway.

One of my best friends gave me a letter with the heading, "20 Things I Love About You." Her top reason said, "I love that you are not afraid of anything. You're unafraid to take risks, talk to people, make bold moves, say what you want to say, and do what needs to be done." Perhaps getting tested doesn't fit into the "risks" category, or even under "bold moves," because it was more helpful than anything I had attempted to do before, and it lead to the greatest thing I could have ever hoped for: reading books past my ending, past the last chapter, to the last word the author wrote.