I don’t suppose it’s much of a shock to hear that my ADHD diagnosis has been officially confirmed. It certainly wasn’t to me, especially with all the introspection I’ve inflicted upon myself of late. However, the probing I received during my recent appointment with a Neurodevelopmental Psychiatrist had me momentarily suspecting she may not have been too sure.
With fight-or-flight instincts kicking in, I focussed on steeling myself for the all-too-familiar disillusionment that comes from encountering yet another brick wall, and I readied myself for the disappointment of being back to square one. Yet, it turned out, she had something else on her mind.
We’ll get to that later.
As someone who doesn’t like to make a fuss, and as someone who has suffered through more than a few awkward GP appointments (you know the ones, you go in search of answers and leave feeling as though you’re the problem), I wouldn’t have pursued diagnosis if I didn’t feel I would be taken seriously, and that I would be listened to. More importantly, as ADHD found its way to me, rather than me seeking it out, I wouldn’t have pursued diagnosis if, in my mind, the outcome wasn’t already a foregone conclusion, thanks to my hyperfocus research into the subject. I backed a winning horse so to speak, even though it was like riding a wild stallion bareback at times.
And so, as the Psychiatrist began summarising her findings from the appointment, coupled with test results, questionnaires and observations from those who know me best, I took a moment to let the reality of what was being said sink in. Finally, there was a reason, but for what, I wasn’t quite sure, and what it meant for me now, I also wasn’t quite sure. I just hoped, in the very least, I could find some level of understanding and acceptance, even though I realised I now had the one thing I’d avoided my whole life. A label.
I sat in silence, not taking in much of what was being said, questions spinning around my head. What if I’d known thirty years ago? Perhaps twenty? Ten even? How different would my life have been? How many less scars would I have, both physical and emotional? The Psychiatrist, showing genuine concern, asked if I was okay, and reassured me that thirty years ago, perhaps twenty, and even ten, diagnosis most likely wouldn’t have been possible, that there simply wasn’t enough known about how the disorder affected women for it to have been a consideration.
So, there we have it, ADHD of the combined variety is my new reality. Or rather, the labelling as such is my new reality.
However, it didn’t stop there. Once all the ADHD chatter was out of the way, the Psychiatrist said there was something else she wanted to talk to me about, that she’d picked up on several traits during the appointment that led her to another area of her specialism within the Neurodevelopmental field.
ASD.
Unlike with ADHD, I haven’t gone all Amateur Forensic Scientist on the subject, and so I have very little insight at present, and therefore very little to say, although I have to say it hit hard when she mentioned it. I think I need some time to reflect on what this new information means to me, and I also need to go a little easy on myself for a while. Talk about going from zero to one hundred – one disorder at a time please.
I can’t deny, however, that the Psychiatrist’s expert-in-her-field observations of me seem to have provided a solution to puzzles where ADHD isn’t the missing piece, and the truth of the matter is ASD, as she explained it to me, does make a lot of sense.
But it’s a lot. It really is.
Channelling my inner Chandler Bing, could I BE any more neuro-spicy?
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