I SAT sobbing in front of a psychiatrist. Tears pouring down my face, I recounted the tribulations of the past five years of my marriage, during which my husband had lost all patience with my skew-whiff sense of logic, my neurotic inarticulateness, my misplacing of car keys, last-minute changing of plans and complete inability to follow simple instructions or order anything at all.
In this make-or-break session almost a decade ago, I explained that his constant stream of criticism, along with my inner berating voice, had pushed me into a depression. That while my life might’ve spawned the trappings of so-called success – articles written, documentary films made, husband bagged, baby made – I’d always felt that I was on a collision course with “something”; that sooner or later my inner madness would be revealed to the world.
Now aged 33, it seemed the time had come. At the end of the agonising hour of my appointment, the psychiatrist reassured me that I wasn’t lazy, crazy or stupid, as I’d spent all my life believing. Rather my issues with restlessness, impulsivity and distractibility were the symptoms of ADHD – attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder – the condition he determined I’d been born with.
‘THE PSYCHIATRIST ASSURED ME THAT I WASN’T LAZY, CRAZY OR STUPID, AS I’D SPENT ALL MY LIFE BELIEVING’
Initially I was shocked and, I admit, somewhat insulted – wasn’t ADHD something that afflicted hyperactive schoolboys? But no, it seemed I was one of the many women who’ve spent decades waiting for a diagnosis.
