The Hidden Cost of Growing Up Full of Fillings

This piece is dedicated to those who were filled, forgotten, and still fighting for clarity.

For most of my life, I thought the battles in my head — the racing thoughts, the inability to focus, the never-ending hum of internal noise — were just my cross to bear. I figured it was part of the package. Just me being me. Something to push through. Toughen up, get on with it.

Then, two years ago, something clicked. A late-in-life ADHD diagnosis — 48 years of age — and suddenly, everything reframed. Decades of self-doubt and confusion cleared like a southerly rolling through Fremantle Doctor-style. But that wasn’t the end of it. It opened a door to a darker, more disturbing possibility. One that connected my childhood, my body, my class background, and something almost no one talks about anymore: the legacy of dental amalgam.

See, my mouth’s a relic. A glittering time capsule of 1970s Australia. Like most kids from working-class families back then — especially if you were raised on Centrelink and free milk — your dental care was done on the public dime. School dentists, mobile clinics, no questions asked. “He needs fillings? Open up, champ.” And in went the amalgam — silver-coloured, mercury-heavy, packed in tight and forgotten about. Nobody asked. Nobody explained. It was normal.

But normal isn’t always safe. Not in hindsight.

It turns out, those fillings weren’t just sealing cavities. They were slowly turning my mouth into a live wire — a volatile little battery sparking away under my tongue, year after year. That’s not poetic metaphor. That’s oral galvanism. Real science. When you’ve got different metals in your mouth — mercury amalgam, maybe a gold crown here or a porcelain-metal job there — and your saliva’s the electrolyte, you’ve got an electrical circuit humming 24/7. Microcurrents. Constant, quiet corrosion. A low-voltage storm in your skull.

Now add to that the daily rituals: eating, drinking, grinding your teeth at night while your nervous system’s in overdrive. The acidity of coffee, juice, even tap water treated with chlorine and fluoride — all of it speeds up the breakdown of those metals. And when they break down, they don’t just vanish. They release. Mercury vapour, metal ions. Tiny, invisible particles slipping past your tongue and possibly into your bloodstream.

For decades, my body was dealing with that. My nervous system, my brain — already wired a bit differently — was soaking in the slow release of something we now know is neurotoxic. I’m not saying it caused my ADHD. But what I am saying is that for someone born with a vulnerable neurology — and many of us are — this kind of exposure could’ve tipped the balance. Made it worse. Pushed things from “quirky” to “chronic.” From just coping, to lifelong struggle.

And here’s the kicker: I’m not alone.

There’s an entire generation of us — born in the ’60s, ’70s, early ’80s — now being diagnosed late in life. Neurodivergent. ADHD. Autism. All the overlapping shades. Many of us are walking around with mouths full of these metallic leftovers, unaware of the chemistry and electricity at play. We grew up believing the problem was us. Not the fillings. Not the system. Just our own internal failings.

But maybe the real failing was institutional.

Dentists and nurses were just doing their job, sure. Working off the advice of the day. But let’s not forget: the same fingers placing those fillings were often stained yellow from a quick smoke between patients. What was “safe” back then is now understood to be harmful — but only after the damage is done. It’s always like that, isn’t it? Asbestos. Leaded petrol. Thalidomide. Institutional homes.

And now, perhaps, amalgam.

What frustrates me — and what should concern every health professional in the country — is the compounding injustice. First, many of us never got diagnosed until adulthood. And now, we’re expected to pay thousands out of pocket to have this toxic shit removed — safely, by trained professionals using SMART protocols — because it’s not covered. Not even for people on low incomes. Not even for people who already have known sensitivities or conditions that could plausibly be worsened by mercury exposure.

I can afford to start the process. Just. But what about the countless others who can’t?

What about the bloke working two jobs trying to make rent, who’s lived with brain fog for decades and doesn’t even know why? What about the single mum who suspects her kid might be on the spectrum, but can’t get a diagnosis before 2028 because the public system’s clogged?

Where’s the justice in that?

So here’s what I reckon needs to happen — urgently, and unapologetically:

What the Government Owes Us

1. Acknowledge the legacy.

A formal recognition that amalgam was widely used under government-funded programs, and that oral galvanism and long-term mercury exposure deserve re-evaluation — especially in neurodivergent populations. No blame, just truth.

2. Fund safe removals.

Subsidise amalgam removal for low-income Aussies, concession card holders, or those with documented sensitivities. Ensure SMART protocol compliance. Don’t leave it to boutique dentists for the wealthy. Make it public. Make it safe.

3. Expand neurodivergence support.

Triple the funding for adult diagnosis and support — especially for people missed in childhood. That means properly trained staff, shorter waitlists, and public clinics that actually understand the complexity of lived experience.

4. Invest in proper research.

Study the links. Fund the science. Examine whether metal exposure and galvanism have played a role in the rise of neurodevelopmental conditions, especially among those born during peak amalgam use. The silence on this front is deafening.

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This isn’t a sob story. It’s a wake-up call. And it’s not just about me.

It’s about all of us who grew up thinking we were broken, when maybe we were just born into a world that didn’t know how to care for our kind properly. It’s about the quiet costs of being told, year after year, “You’re fine. Toughen up.” When all along, there was a storm in our mouths, and in our minds.

Like R.E.M.’s E-Bow the Letter — the line “Aluminium! Tastes like fear” hits me hard now. Because I’ve literally tasted that fear. Lived it. Swallowed it.

It’s time we stop treating this like old news.