ADHD is defined as a brain disorder, characterized as a distinct lack of attention and focus, to the point that it interferes with function and development. For those of you who don't know, ADHD — short for attention deficit hyperactivity disorder — affects approximately 11% of children 4-17 years of age have been diagnosed with ADHD as of 2011.

My brother is one of them.

Maybe, while reading this article, an ad will catch your attention, and you'll stow that thought away for later. For my brother, and the 6.4 million children just like him, that might be nearly impossible to accomplish. No matter how small, any distraction is more like a derailment in a train of thought.

Or, perhaps, his train just has too many different conductors calling the shots, in the first place. One conductor definitely wants to read this article, another wants to have a snack, the other wants to go back to playing video games, the other hears mom's voice from the other room, chiding him about cleaning his room, and the other is remembering the very exact moment at 11:03 AM on Christmas morning six years ago when he got the video game he is so intent on returning to.

Meanwhile, in real time, he's 14, he'll be 15 in April, and can't let a single soul forget it.

"Are you sure you should be watching that? Are they cussing?" I often chide.
"I'm fourteen, Sierra."

Yeah, yeah, I got it.

The thing is, the thing that will possibly surprise you, is that my brother is so much more than a label. He is funny and creative and witty and he's just a kid. He doesn't have bad parents, he isn't lazy or unmotivated, or dumb — as he has sometimes felt. He is really awesome at math, he is a truly talented writer, he can master a video game in six hours (probably less), and he has dreams, bigger than the room I'm currently sitting in, of being a video game designer. And he can do it. He just needs a little bit of help that some other kids don't need. His help comes in the form of a prescription, some other kids' help comes in the form of an encouraging word.

And that's okay.

Asking for help, in our society, is often regarded as a sign of weakness or entitlement, but my brother is neither weak nor entitled. He is one of the strongest people I know. As someone who suffers from an anxiety disorder, I know what it's like to feel like there are things going on in your head that you can't always control. It is so hard to explain to everyone else what's going on in your head, when you can't entirely explain it yourself.

"Why can't you just calm down?"
"I just don't know how," is the answer.

He is hyper and he is brave. He struggles to maintain focus and he is just as clever if not more so than his peers. He is one of my original best friends. He is the apple of my parents' eyes. He can light up an entire room — though, only on his own terms, like any other fourteen year old boy. My brother, people, human beings, are more than just one thing.

He is my hero, and I love him more than words can say, hyperactivity and all.