As some of you may know, I have ADHD.
So when I was a wee Zeph, second grade, I had to take Ritalin because I was an antsy little shit. Mornings in the ZephLastName household were chaotic. One day I didn't get to take my medication. Mom grabbed a cup of water and told me to drink in the car. Because I was clumsy, I got the pill but spilled the water all over me. I didn't care.
Cut ahead to class time. We are taking a test. All I remember is the creeping, "drilling a hole though the bottom of your stomach lining and filling the hole with burrowing maggots" visceral horror of not knowing any of it. Because young Zeph was an easily stressed and emotional child, I started crying.
The teacher came over to see what was wrong. Then the aide. I was inconsolable and couldn't explain what was wrong. There was some hurried talk and the aide escorted me out of the room. I had transcended from the usual crying into the incoherent kind of crying where I couldn't stop it. I didn't pay attention until I realized we had gotten to the office.
Holy shit, they were going to send me home because I was terrible.
Office Lady: We're going to call your mom.
Aide: She's going to bring you new pants. It's okay, honey.
Aide: You wet your pants.
Me: Oh. That's not why I was crying.
I explained about the pill and the water. They knew about my medication because they had some there that I had to take at lunch.
Them: Why were you crying?
Me: Because of the test.
Them: . . .
They took me back to class.
There's not really a moral to this story.