
Guest post:
Mark E. Paull, CME
Substack: adhd-t1dm.substack.com
Published Writer | Lived-Experience Advocate | Type 1 diabetes since 1967
This is my experience. It may apply to others—perhaps we all share certain aspects of it—or it may not. The connections between ADHD, cognition, and perception need more research. What follows is not a claim, just the reality as I live it.
The Relentless Dance
When I was eleven, a doctor looked me in the eye and said:
“You won’t live past thirty-five.”
He didn’t say it cruelly. It wasn’t meant to be a punishment or a scare tactic. It was clinical, matter-of-fact, as if he were giving me a weather forecast. I remember the sterile smell of his office, the crisp white of his coat, the way my mother gripped my hand just a little tighter.
Type 1 diabetes took over my life—numbers, syringes, and survival became my world. The carefree days of schoolyard games and comic books faded into one relentless focus: control.
But no one saw the real threat: ADHD.
I just didn’t know it yet.
At eleven, I was impulsive, forgetful—constantly losing things, losing track of conversations. My mind bounced from thought to thought, never settling. No one thought much of it. I was the ‘daydreamer,’ the ‘bright but careless’ kid—energetic and scattered. No one thought much of it.
But diabetes doesn’t care if you forget, if you get distracted, or if your brain works differently.
ADHD thrives on chaos, distraction, and forgetting things that could kill you. But diabetes? It demands precision, structure, and unwavering consistency.
And so, my life became a war between two disorders that should never have existed in the same body.
The first time I forgot to take my insulin I was at school.
It was lunchtime. My tray had exactly 60 grams of carbohydrates—a number drilled into my brain through endless diabetes training. Math was now a part of eating. I knew the steps: Take the insulin shot first, then eat. Simple.
Except, before I could inject, someone at the next table cracked a joke.
I turned to laugh.
And in that instant, my attention jumped tracks.
By the time I remembered my insulin, my blood sugar was already climbing. My head felt heavy, my body sluggish, my thoughts wrapped in cotton. I stumbled through the rest of the day, my hands shaky, my brain slow, the numbers on my meter confirming what I already knew—I had lost control. Again.
But the worst moments weren’t when I forgot my insulin.
They were when I wasn’t sure if I had taken it already.
At night, I’d lie in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Did I take my long-acting insulin? Or did I just think about taking it?
If I took it twice, I could die in my sleep.
If I didn’t take it at all, I could wake up in a coma.
I’d get out of bed, check my blood sugar, and stare at the number on the meter—except that wasn’t an answer. It was a riddle. My ADHD brain had no reliable memory for something so repetitive. If I had taken my insulin fifteen minutes ago, would my blood sugar even reflect it yet?
I couldn’t trust my brain. I couldn’t trust my body. And I was completely alone in figuring out how to navigate a world where I was both my own lifeline and my own worst enemy.
Everyone thought diabetes would be my biggest challenge. But the real fight? My mind.
Managing diabetes means following the same steps every day, without fail:
- Check blood sugar before eating.
- Calculate insulin dose with perfect accuracy.
- Eat at the right times—not too early, not too late.
- Carry emergency sugar at all times.
- Double-check. Triple-check. Never miss a step.
No room for error. But ADHD turns routines into chaos.
I created systems—alarms, notes, even tying my insulin pen to my lunchbox—all to help me remember.
But ADHD has its own logic.
I’d hear the alarm and immediately forget why I set it.
I’d see a note and think, I’ll do that in a minute, and then never do it.
I lost count of how many times I ignored the insulin pen, too distracted by whatever was happening in my head.
Some days, I was hyper-focused on managing my blood sugar like a scientist, tracking every fluctuation, analyzing trends, predicting outcomes. I was in control.
Other days, I’d get so absorbed in writing, reading, or just daydreaming that I wouldn’t eat until I was shaking and drenched in sweat. I was out of control.
There was no in-between.
And the worst part? My brain played tricks on me.
On a school field trip, I packed my insulin in a zippered pouch, zipped it into my backpack, and congratulated myself.
Halfway through the trip, I realized I had no memory of actually taking the shot.
I froze on the bus, trying to replay the morning in my mind.
Had I unzipped the pouch?
Had I pulled out the pen?
Had I done the injection?
My brain said I had. My gut said I hadn’t. I had to guess.
That was ADHD and diabetes in a nutshell. A daily roulette of whether my own memory could be trusted.
And the world—my doctors, my teachers, even my parents—didn’t understand.
They saw a kid who “just needed to be more responsible.”
I saw a kid fighting a battle that no one had prepared him for.
No one warned me that ADHD and diabetes played by opposite rules.
No one had told me I would have to figure this out alone.
The Systems That Failed Me
Diabetes is a disease of routines. ADHD is a disorder of breaking them.
That’s the contradiction I lived with every single day.
Diabetes means doing the same steps, in the same order, every single time:
- Check blood sugar.
- Calculate insulin dose.
- Inject insulin.
- Eat at the right time.
- Adjust for exercise, stress, or anything unpredictable.
- Carry emergency sugar.
If you mess up, you don’t just feel off—you crash. Your blood sugar spikes too high or drops too low, and both can kill you.
ADHD means you can know all of this and still forget in the moment. It means routines don’t feel natural. It means every time you try to build a habit, it crumbles under the weight of distraction, impulsivity, forgetfulness, or just your own unpredictable brain.
So I tried to outsmart myself.
I followed all the advice, experimented, and adjusted. Nothing worked.
The Alarm System That Never Worked
Doctors said: ‘Set alarms.’ So, I did—alarms for insulin, meals, blood sugar checks. They didn’t work.
ADHD made my brain filter alarms as background noise. I would hear it, register that it was important, and then—just as quickly—forget about it. Or worse, I would turn it off thinking, I’ll do it in a second, and then never do it.
Sometimes, I would snooze the alarm so many times that by the time I actually paid attention, it was hours too late to take my insulin.
Other times, I would check my blood sugar, see a number in range, and think, I must have already done it. But had I? I had no way of knowing. One of the worst times was during an exam in high school. I had set a quiet vibration alarm on my watch to remind me to take my insulin at lunchtime.
But I was so deep in concentration that I just ignored it.
Two hours late. Blood sugar climbing. My brain drowning in syrup. The test became a blur.
My body was sluggish, my mind dull, my focus shot.
I stumbled through the rest of the test, barely able to think straight.
That was the moment I realized: even alarms don’t work if your brain doesn’t register them as urgent.
The Notebook That Disappeared
Since alarms didn’t work, I switched to writing things down. A doctor suggested a logbook, so I bought one that made me feel responsible.
Every entry was supposed to be neatly recorded—time, dose, blood sugar, carbs eaten.
It was a foolproof system.
Except ADHD means nothing stays where you put it.
I lost that notebook within the week. The next one disappeared too.
Eventually, my room became a graveyard of half-filled diabetes logs, scattered across drawers and bookshelves, each one abandoned because I had forgotten where I left it.
One time, I found an old logbook and thought, Great, I’ll start using this one again!
Only to realize all the entries were from two months earlier.
The worst part? Even when I did manage to write things down, I’d forget to check what I had written.
I had all the information—I just never looked at it.
The Trick That Didn’t Work
Next strategy: leaving things in obvious places.
- I put my insulin pen next to my toothbrush so I’d see it every morning.
- I left glucose tablets by my bed for nighttime lows.
- I even put sticky notes on my laptop saying, CHECK BLOOD SUGAR NOW.
But ADHD doesn’t work like that.
I saw those things so often that my brain stopped noticing them.
The sticky notes became part of the scenery.
The insulin pen next to my toothbrush? I brushed my teeth, stepped over it, and walked away.
The glucose tablets? Completely ignored until I needed them in a panic.
Nothing worked. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how many systems I built, my brain refused to cooperate.
The System That Finally Helped (Sort of)
“It took years, but I realized I had to work with my brain, not against it.”
Instead of trying to force myself into a rigid structure, I worked with my brain’s natural tendencies.
- Blood sugar checks happened when I took off my shoes.
- Habit stacking – I tied diabetes tasks to things I already did without thinking.
- Morning insulin was paired with coffee.
- Timers, not alarms – Instead of setting a one-time alarm, I used countdown timers.
- “Take insulin in 10 minutes” became a more immediate task than a random beep.
Tech helped – When continuous glucose monitors (CGMs) became available, they changed everything.
Now, my phone told me when I was high or low, rather than relying on me to remember.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than anything else I had tried.
Still, the frustration remained:
Why did I have to work twice as hard just to stay alive?
Every missed dose, every forgotten blood sugar check, every time I had to scramble to correct a mistake—it wasn’t carelessness.
It wasn’t irresponsibility.
It was ADHD.
And no one had ever told me how much harder that would make managing diabetes.
For years, I thought ADHD only made my diabetes worse. That it was just another obstacle, another failure waiting to happen. But I was wrong.
ADHD and Hyperfocus: The Unexpected Lifesaver
For years, I thought ADHD made me bad at diabetes. I was wrong. It made me survive it.
The same brain that forgot insulin could also hyperfocus on it.
On good days, I tracked my blood sugar with an obsessive precision that rivaled medical professionals. I could see patterns before my doctor did.
I would run my own experiments—how different foods affected my glucose, how stress changed my numbers, how exercise played into everything. When my brain locked in, I became my own best endocrinologist.
One time, my doctor raised an eyebrow at my self-made spreadsheet, color-coded and filled with notes about insulin absorption times.
“You track this better than half my patients,” he said.
I smirked. Of course I did. It was an ADHD deep-dive.
Pattern Recognition and Instincts
I began to trust something most people didn’t even think about—my gut.
ADHD made me notice tiny details, subtle shifts. I could feel a low blood sugar coming before the numbers confirmed it. I sensed when something was “off” before I could logically explain why.
It wasn’t magic—it was pattern recognition, honed from years of analyzing every mistake, every reaction, every small variable.
Doctors told me, “You can’t feel a blood sugar drop before your CGM does.”
But I could. And I did. Repeatedly.
Crisis Mode: When ADHD Became a Superpower
ADHD brains are wired for high-pressure situations. When everything was going wrong, when my blood sugar was crashing, when I had seconds to act, my brain flipped into hyperfocus survival mode.
There was no hesitation. No distraction. Just clear, sharp action.
One night, I double-dosed insulin—again. I felt the symptoms creeping in fast. My heart was racing. My hands were shaking. The room tilted. I knew what was coming.
But instead of panicking, my brain locked in.
I lined up exactly what I needed: juice, glucose tablets, honey. I ran calculations in my head. I spaced out my carb intake strategically. I set timers to check my glucose every five minutes. I executed it like a pilot handling an emergency landing.
An hour later, I was stable.
This wasn’t luck. It was ADHD’s ability to hyperfocus under stress, to rapidly problem-solve, to process chaos in real time.
This happened again when I was traveling. I was in a new city, out of my usual routine, and my blood sugar started dropping rapidly. I had no glucose on me.
But instead of panicking, my brain did what it always does in a crisis—it calculated.
I spotted a small café down the street and sprinted in, gasping out, “Juice—fast.” The cashier blinked at me, confused. I didn’t have time to explain. I grabbed the nearest bottle of orange juice and chugged it at the counter, shaking hands gripping the plastic like a lifeline.
That’s what ADHD does.
It makes normal life hard—but when things go wrong? I thrive.
Reframing ADHD: A Strength, not a Weakness
For so long, ADHD felt like an enemy. It made diabetes harder. It made me fail. It made me feel reckless and irresponsible.
But then I saw the full picture: ADHD didn’t just create problems—it helped me solve them.
It made me notice details others missed.
It made me experiment and adapt faster than most people.
It let me hyperfocus on solutions when I needed them most.
It forced me to find creative workarounds when standard systems failed.
I was never going to be the patient who followed perfect routines. My brain wasn’t built for that. But I could be the patient who out-thought diabetes.
Who adapted faster.
Who found new ways to manage when the textbook ones didn’t work.
I stopped trying to fight my brain and started working with it.
That shift changed everything.
One of the biggest lessons I learned was that success didn’t have to look like “normal” success.”
For me, a “perfect” diabetes day wasn’t about hitting every number exactly right—it was about catching mistakes before they spiraled out of control.
It was about realizing my brain wasn’t broken—it was different.
Instead of beating myself up for not being consistent, I leaned into my strengths:
- I used hyperfocus to analyze patterns and spot mistakes.
- I stopped fighting alarms and started linking insulin to physical habits I already had.
- I trusted my instincts when my body told me something was wrong.
For years, I thought I was just bad at diabetes.
That I was irresponsible, careless, lazy.
I wasn’t.
I was managing two conditions that fundamentally clashed with each other.
And I was doing it without any guidance, without understanding why my brain worked the way it did.
The First Time I Gave myself Grace
I remember the exact moment I stopped being angry at myself.
It was late at night.
My blood sugar was dropping, and I was sitting on my bed, glucose tabs in one hand, phone in the other, staring at an article about ADHD and diabetes.
It described everything I had been through—forgetting insulin, missing doses, panicking over double-dosing, the exhaustion of trying to be “good” at diabetes but never quite getting there.
I’d been told I was bad at diabetes. For so long, I believed it.
Now I see—it was never a fair fight.
And I had never been failing.
I felt like I was reading my own life story.
For the first time, I didn’t feel like a failure.
I felt seen.
I was never alone.
It was my brain.
And my brain wasn’t broken.
It was just different.
What I Wish Someone Had Told Me Sooner
If I could go back and talk to my eleven-year-old self sitting in that doctor’s office, I would tell him this:
“Dear 11-year-old me: You are not failing. The world just doesn’t understand how your brain works—yet. You are not lazy. Your brain works differently, and that’s okay. Diabetes will be harder for you than it is for some people, but that doesn’t mean you’re failing. You will find ways to adapt. They won’t always be conventional, but they will work for you. You will mess up. It’s not your fault. It’s part of learning how to manage two conditions that weren’t designed to play nicely together. You will survive this.”
No one told me those things when I was younger.
So I’m telling them to myself now.
What Success Looks Like for Me Now
For years, I measured success by how well I could imitate neurotypical diabetes management.
Now, I measure success differently:
1. Did I catch a mistake before it became dangerous? That’s a win.
2. Did I problem-solve creatively when my brain wouldn’t cooperate? That’s a win.
3. Did I show myself patience instead of self-hatred? That’s a win.
Success isn’t perfection. It’s about figuring out how to live.
Speaking to Others Like Me
I know I’m not alone in this.
There are others out there—kids, teens, adults—trying to manage diabetes with a brain that doesn’t follow the rules.
To them, I say this:
Your ADHD isn’t a curse. It isn’t a weakness. It’s a challenge, yes, but it’s also a tool.
You can survive this. You can thrive. You can find ways to make it work.
For years, I thought I was fighting myself.
Now, I see I was fighting a battle I was never meant to fight alone.
ADHD and diabetes together are hard.
But I am not failing.
I was never failing.
I was surviving.
The doctor was wrong. He didn’t know my fight. I didn’t just survive—I thrived. And that? That’s everything.