ADHD Diet Kansas City MO

By Melanie Haiken

The day my daughter refused to eat even her favorite food—peanut butter and honey on toast—was the day I lost it. Bursting into tears, I pulled open the medicine cabinet and swept all three of the medications she was taking into the trash.

Linnea, then seven, had spent the previous year on three different powerful psychotropic drugs, one after the other, as we waged a desperate battle to control her stuttering and the facial tics that went with it. Not only did the medications (a tranquilizer, a blood pressure drug prescribed off-label, and an antidepressant) leave her tics as rampant as ever, they caused a host of side effects including depression, lethargy, and an almost complete loss of appetite.

Always a skinny girl, Linnea had become thinner and thinner, at one point dropping below 50 pounds. And I had become a drill sergeant, standing over her while she tried to eat, alternately commanding and cajoling as I measured the circumference of her tiny arms with my eyes. Instead of the medications controlling her tics, it seemed that her tics were controlling us.

So into the wastebasket went the bottles of clonazepam and clonidine and desipramine, and off I went into full research mode. There must be something out there, I thought, that can help my daughter without wreaking such havoc on her young body.

The Search Begins
Here is a truth about the parents of a child with a disability: We are relentless. Nothing fuels determination like listening to your child cry herself to sleep at night, or hearing her ask, yet again, if she’ll ever be able to talk like other kids. Doctors and schools characterize us as demanding and difficult—yep, it’s true. We will do anything—anything—to help our suffering children lead a normal, happy life. And yes, this dedication makes us easy targets for all the hucksters and charlatans out there touting the latest miracle in a bottle. But it also makes us powerful advocates, unshakable in our pursuit of the breakthrough that might make all the difference to the child we love.

It had been a long road up to this point. Linnea first started stuttering when she was just three, and the problem has become progressively more severe, characterized by what are called complete blocks—when her throat closes up and she gets trapped in a tense, tight-throated silence. As she struggles to get her words out, she goes into a multitude of tics—grimacing, blinking, throwing her head to one side. It is disconcerting and disturbing; even those who love Linnea dearly sometimes have to avert their eyes when she is trying hard to talk.

Shortly after the peanut butter incident, I sat down at my computer, cruised some email newsgroups, and discovered a vast and hugely knowledgeable resource: my fellow parents of kids with behavioral disabilities. I quickly learned from these dedicated people that there are nondrug treatments that can make a real difference for children with disorders like Linnea’s. It was a vas...

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