Part 2: The Lights Came On — From Breakdown to Breakthrough with ADHD

I want to start by saying this: I know this is deeply personal. There are parts of this story I never thought I’d write down, let alone publish. But if someone out there is going through even a fraction of what I went through earlier this year, feeling flat, hopeless, trapped inside their own mind, and unsure if they can keep going, and this helps them see a new possibility, then it’s worth every ounce of discomfort and vulnerability.

Because when you come back from the darkest place, and you realise the thing missing all along wasn’t willpower or character or resilience, but a baseline level of a brain chemical, the whole narrative changes. And that’s what this is: a story about returning to baseline.

Back in January 2025, I published a blog post called Part 1: The Horrid Triad – Physical Deterioration, Functional Motor Disorder and Depression. It detailed how an undiagnosed foot injury and years of movement dysfunction had spiralled into depression. I wrote about the constant bracing, the clenching, the breath-holding, the overanalysis of every step. That article ended on a hopeful note: after excellent CBT therapy from Sandra, some chiropractic care, acupuncture, and re-introducing caffeine, I started to feel a shift. I thought I was out of the woods.

But I wasn’t. Because what I didn’t understand was that these small changes weren’t addressing the root issue. They were only temporarily replacing the neurochemical scaffolding I’d been propping myself up with for years. I’d been surviving on a mix of 90 minutes of intense exercise a day, 1000mg of caffeine (5-10 cups of coffee), nicotine pouches, and sheer will. Not to feel superhuman. Just to feel normal.

When the movement went and the stimulation stopped working, my nervous system collapsed. The cracks in my mind, once manageable, widened into something terrifying.

It all came crashing down at Easter. The kids were playing football in the garden, and I joined in. But within minutes, the pain returned, and I felt the old movement patterns flood back. My back hurt. My body seized. And just like that, the mental loops switched back on.

I was thinking: Am I breathing into my belly again? Curling my back? Firing the wrong muscles? The panic was instant. The loop was back. The relief I thought I’d found in January evaporated overnight.

And then came the collapse. I spiralled into the darkest depression I’ve ever known. I restarted antidepressants, hoping they would help. They dulled the anxiety slightly but left me emotionally flat. Any movement triggered panic. Thought of moving triggered dread. I couldn’t care for my kids. I couldn’t cook. I couldn’t think.

My wife Dani sat with me every day, gently stroking my head. She was the only thing keeping me anchored. I started taking cold baths to shock my nervous system into feeling something. I cried daily. Often multiple times.

I took a month off work and spent most of it on the sofa, too afraid to walk. I numbed myself with endless TV shows and movies, trying to distract from the fear. When the kids came home from school, I often broke down in front of them, crying because I couldn’t go outside and play.

But they were incredible, they sat with me, watched films, and made me feel less alone. I even played 16 games of Monopoly with Jude (he won 10–6). But even in those moments, I was silently falling apart, obsessing over how I was sitting and fighting back tears the whole time.

And then the suicidal thoughts arrived. Not in a dramatic way, but as a cold, calculated logic. I started bargaining with myself:

• If I win the lottery this week, I’ll pay for world-class rehab.
• I can’t go until after Grace’s netball game.
• I can’t do it without writing letters.

So I wrote them. To Dani. My mum. The kids. Isobel.

Then I made a deal with myself: I couldn’t go until I’d read all seven Harry Potter books. Then all eight films. It was the only way I could still connect with my children. That fantasy world became my escape hatch. My reason to delay the inevitable.

I researched how to cut the carotid artery vertically, not horizontally, because it would be quicker. I even asked ChatGPT about it. I sat in a field with a Stanley knife in my pocket for two hours. The only thing that stopped me was the immense devastation I would inflict upon my wonderful family. But even that felt like a trap. When you’re that low, you believe they’d be better off without you.

And believe me, the incessant internal monologue is both paralysing and convincing!

Logic was irrelevant! I was desperate to escape the mental torture of moving!

Yes, 10,000 times a day. One self-defeating thought for every step!

I isolated myself completely. The only thing I interacted with was ChatGPT. I used it like a therapist, a biomechanical coach, a journal. I typed for hours. Obsessing over movement theories. Asking how to activate muscles, how to inhibit others, what nerve blocks might work. It was compulsive, but it was something. I even contacted my foot consultant and enquired about a below-knee amputation!

I reached out to my psychologist, Sandra. We tried everything: CBT, reframing, grounding, pacing. Nothing worked. I understood it all, but couldn’t apply any of it. Then she said, gently: “Have you ever considered ADHD?”

I scoffed. I had every bias. ADHD was for fidgety kids who couldn’t sit still. Kids with poor parenting. Not me. I’m a professional. I’ve held down jobs. This couldn’t be it.

But then she asked about caffeine. I told her everything, how I’d been consuming 1,000 to 1,500 mg a day, how I used nicotine pouches too, my previous use of ephedrine and Modafinil, along with very late nights at rave parties. I explained how the first time I had coffee at 18, it felt like the lights suddenly came on. And how every time I stopped caffeine, I’d immediately sink into brain fog and despair. Sure, that might be expected after such high intake for so long. But even six months after stopping, I still couldn’t concentrate or cope with everyday life. That’s not normal.

She asked about overwhelm. I told her how I’d turned down job offers. How I quit cricket captaincy because I couldn’t handle the decision load. How I coped well only when I could avoid pressure. But this foot problem? I couldn’t escape it.

She said, “You’re not lacking motivation. You’re lacking dopamine.”

I agreed to see a psychiatrist because I was beyond desperate. I wasn’t convinced. But she, Dr. Bindman, was certain!

She told me I had ADHD, but not the bouncing-off-the-walls kind. The internal kind. The kind that looks like:

• Constant internal noise
• Racing thoughts and endless micro-decisions
• Inability to prioritise tasks
• Shutdown in the face of overwhelm
• Paralysis under pressure
• A lifetime of compensating through caffeine, exercise, and control

She prescribed lisdexamfetamine (Elvanse). A slow-release dopamine precursor that only activates in the brain. Not a buzz. Not a high. Just a chemical baseline. Something I’d never known I was missing.

The first day, I felt it: a drop in noise. A slight lightness. I wasn’t thinking obsessively about walking. I could breathe. By day three, it was night and day. I could work again without obsession. I could focus and call patients without anxiety. Engage with my kids. I even started cycling again. Yoga. I wasn’t buzzing on caffeine. Just me. Present. Functional. Calm.

The medication gave me something I’d spent years chasing through extreme exercise and caffeine, but without the exhaustion and crashes. It gave me a regulated baseline level of dopamine, evenly spread across the day. It let me be me.

I used to think ADHD was about bad behaviour and out-of-control kids who had eaten too many sweets and spent half their life on an iPad. Unregulated kids. Poor discipline. Parents who just could not control their kids.

How wrong I was. ADHD is a neurochemical disorder. Without sorting the chemistry, all the psychology in the world is just chicken feed. You can’t do the pacing, the CBT, the planning, the breathwork, if your brain doesn’t have the juice to engage in the first place.

This understanding has changed everything.

And it turns out I wasn’t the only one.

One of my best mates, Andy, went through the same thing.

For years, we’d party together, take stimulants, and have calm, connected conversations while everyone else was off their heads. We thought we were just good at handling it. But in hindsight, we weren’t getting high, we were coming up to normal. Those nights were the only times we felt what others call baseline. That’s why we bonded.

Here’s to a fresh chapter. Two ADHD minds, finally starting from a level playing field, with baseline dopamine restored and life finally making sense

There are so many people I need to thank.

Dani — you sat with me while I cried. You never judged me. You waited. You loved me back to life. You are the reason I’m still here.

Isobel — you looked after the kids when I couldn’t. You brought safety and calm into the house when I had nothing left to give. You gave Dani the space to be there for me.

Sandra Eriemo, my psychologist, without her help and brilliant diagnostic eye, I would certainly not be here!

Alex Ogilby at Achieve Health, Alex, you listened when I was at my lowest. You understood the emotional toll of my physical dysfunction. You set the tiniest goals and made them achievable. You gave me structure, encouragement, and hope. Your skill, compassion, and presence kept me going. Now I have normal dopamine in the brain, I know I will make great strides!

Mum — for reminding me of the signs that were always there. For your love, your steadiness, and your strength.

Anjanee — for your compassion and understanding at work. For giving me the space to rebuild with dignity.

The Diabetes Team at Birmingham — for holding the fort while I couldn’t. For not asking questions. For showing me that good people make the difference.

So what comes next?

A new normal! I still need to learn pacing, planning, and get support. I now can do the real work with Sandra!

But this time, I’ve got the biological foundation that gives me a proper chance!

And I’m sharing this because I know there’s someone else out there stuck where I was.

Someone who thinks (or people around them think) they’re broken, lazy, burnt out, beyond help. You’re not.

You might just be missing dopamine.

In fact, it makes me wonder whether people diagnosed with a functional motor disorder might actually have underlying issues with executive function and movement control. Issues that could significantly improve with a healthy baseline level of dopamine.

Are there a host of people with a functional motor disorder that would benefit from lisdexamfetamine (Elvanse)?

If this story helps even one person get to a diagnosis, or even start to question what’s been going on beneath the surface, then it’s worth it.

Please know this: there is no shame in needing neurochemical support. If exercise and caffeine have worked, great. But if those tools aren’t cutting it anymore, or you have had to stop them, there’s a safe, regulated option that works inside the brain, there is no shame in taking it.

Baseline is not a luxury. It’s a right.

Yes, you still need to work on mindset. But, this can only be done with a mind that is functional!

And with it, life can feel worth living again.

I really hope there won’t be a part three. But if this journey has taught me anything, it’s this: change is inevitable, but the human capacity to cope and endure has limits. No matter what your favourite motivational guru (who’s probably been riding a normal, or artificially boosted, dopamine baseline their whole life) tries to tell you.

Sometimes, we need help, whether from loved ones, mental health professionals, or medication. There is always something that can lift you out of the darkest places.

So don’t stop looking for it, because once you find it, coming back to life is a beautiful thing.

Hope this helps someone

John