My friend Beth went blind as a young adult, the result of complications of Type 1 diabetes. Her son, Gus, was born with a profound cognitive impairment and uses a wheelchair.  So it’s pretty clear when you see them coming what they’re up against.

The picture at the top of the page is of my son and daughter, ages four and seven. Cute, aren’t they? When they were born, I had no reason to think they were anything but perfectly normal. They rolled over, crawled, walked, and talked--all on schedule--and just generally grew happily, like weeds. But as they entered the world of preschool and public school, their problems began.

Both my son and my daughter have attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD). In addition, my daughter has bipolar disorder. (That’s another story.) Unlike Beth’s and Gus’s disabilities, these disabilities are invisible.

Nearly 10 percent of Americans have an invisible disability. Some people with visual or auditory impairments may not be obviously impaired. Those with chronic pain or chronic illnesses can be quite disabled, but if they don't use a mobility aid of some kind, you'd never know it. A large proportion of invisible disabilities are psychiatric or neurological disorders, like Asperger's syndrome, autism, epilepsy, ADHD, and bipolar.

My son, poor soul,  spent most of his kindergarten year sitting next to a filing cabinet in the principal’s office because, even medicated, he just wasn't under control. He’s now 16 and much less hyperactive, but his brain differences mean he has trouble paying attention to things, planning ahead, and being organized. He’s very bright, though, so if he doesn’t perform up to expectations, it's easy to think he's lazy or just doesn’t care.

Bipolar involves an inability to regulate emotions, and my daughter’s mood swings and outbursts made her basically unfriendable throughout her childhood years. She had a birthday party when only one other kid came—and many years, there were no birthday parties at all. For a while when she was in elementary school, I’d cringe whenever the phone rang. I was sure it would be someone from the office calling to tell me she’d had another meltdown and been suspended again.

Because my kids were never failing or chronic behavior problems in school, they didn’t qualify for special education services. Instead, they received “reasonable classroom accommodations,” which boils down to whatever the teacher knew and was able to do. I can sympathize--general education teachers often do NOT receive the training they need in school to understand all the disabilities of all the kids who are mainstreamed into their classrooms. And my kids' problems are small potatoes compared with other issues classroom teachers face every day. But when your daughter’s third-grade teacher tells you to your face that she doesn’t believe in ADHD, well, that’s tough.
 
It’s especially hard when the symptoms of a kid’s disorder take the form of behavior—in school or out in public. I’ve gotten my share of stares and dirty looks when one of my kids wouldn’t sit down in a restaurant or had a major tantrum in the middle of Wal-Mart. Some parents even go so far as to have cards printed up to explain to strangers that their child’s  behavior is the result of a neurological problem. What do they say, I wonder:  "My kid is not an asshole. He has ____________  (fill in the blank)”?
 
Sadly, often even family and close friends don’t really understand a kid's invisible neurological disorders, as much as you try to explain. These people love you, and they truly want to help, but the advice they give is usually some version of putting your foot down and not letting the kid get away with ____________ (once again, fill in the blank). People questioned my parenting so often I began to question it myself--regularly.  Generally, though, I just said thank you and asked them what time they wanted me to drop the kids off at THEIR house.

My daughter will  be 20 in August, and is by all accounts doing well. She’s on her meds and taking classes at the community college, working part-time at a grocery store. My son is 16, in marching band and running cross country—doing well academically, except when he’s not. Neither one of them self-identifies as being disabled, which is a perfectly normal response for adolescents, who are, after all, immortal. They still look great. They'd kill me if I posted a current photo, though.
 
In closing, I will say that my friend Beth, whom I used as an example in the opening of this post, is the author of two books, a frequent NPR commentator, and a public speaker on disability issues and other matters that happen to catch her interest. She describes herself as a shamelessly self-promoting media slut, so go and visit her at www.bethfinke.blog.

You can hear her on NPR describing what it was like for her when Gus was born and how it felt to put him in a group home. This audio is SO worthwhile. I do hope you'll take the time to listen to it.

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