It was 1999 in a psychiatrist’s office somewhere in the depths of Charing Cross Hospital, London. I’d been sent to see him for a potential diagnosis of Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD). The psychiatrist seemed bored or irritated. I was not sure what. I couldn’t, and can’t, read people.
I fumbled awkwardly through the reasons why I thought I had ADD. I told him of how I liked to daydream, not being able to organise or keep things tidy, I told him about the terrible meltdowns I had and how my friendships and relationships seemed confusing.
I was there because I’d self-diagnosed. It had started with a breakdown. One day I’d suddenly found I could not go on any more. I couldn’t get out of bed, put on my face and put on my mask, go to work and act normal. I just could not do it any more. I was very low, defeated and confused. Continue reading