They say that neurodivergent people wear a mask. I would call it armour and mine was made from my fierce independence. In May 2021 I received my ADHD diagnosis and slowly began to lose my armour. I began to accept that I had challenges that other people didn't have and that I needed some support.
It didn't happen overnight. At first I clung to strategies, convinced that I could think my way out of the problem: colour-coding carabiners, reminders and timers, bulk-buying and labelling, software and trackers, spreadsheets and more.
As one-by-one my strategies fell apart the social model of disability became self-evident. With every impossible-to-open multi-pack, every impossible-to-read instruction manual, every incomprehensible phone call it tapped me on the shoulder. I was working hard on my business and getting new clients but the rest
of my life was in chaos.
What I needed more than anything, I thought, was accountability to keep me on track, structure to overcome my indecision and, most of all, to outsource responsibility for at least some of my executive function so I could focus on making money. I made an appointment with a local care agency, then I applied for PIP. I'd already proved my impairment at my assessment a year earlier, all I had to do was prove it again. How hard could it be? I approached the application like a research paper, barely registering the instructions and guidance.
I was unprepared for the emotional toll that spending a year focusing exclusively on my deficits would take. When my application was denied on the grounds that I had "no cognitive impairment" it felt like a gut punch. Removing that armour felt like a monumental error.
It's fair to say that mytime researching UK and French equality policies had given me rose-tinted glasses, leaving me exposed and vulnerable when the reality of discrimination hit.
I was angry. I spent days amassing evidence about my condition: WHO classifications, quotes from experts, research findings, mortality statistics...only to discover that these would not be accepted (damn that small print).
I'd stopped sleeping and for the first time in 12 years of freelancing I cancelled a translation job that was due the next day. It wouldn't be the last time I would let a client down.
I began to submit FOI requests, convinced that I'd been subject to indirect discrimination. I felt vindicated when I discovered that ADHD experts had never been consulted when PIP was designed, that ADHD was classified by DWP as a "behavioural condition" and was completely absent from that Atos' key reference text.
I tried to get legal representation. I wanted a judicial review. I called and emailed solicitors and legal clinics, trying a different approach each time. I believed that if I could find the right words to frame my experience, the right legal texts to underpin my arguments, I would be heard. If only I could be clearer, more concise.
Or perhaps used a different format? Audio? Bullet points? Social media posts? Surely someone would understand my words eventually?
I began to turn my frustration inward.
If nobody could understand, the problem must be me.
I developed the habit of beginning every conversation with an
explanation of ADHD, convinced that I had a mountain of prejudice to overcome became I could even state my case.
I was beginning to realise the extent of my communication difficulties. I knew that my arguments were sound but was unable to convey them through my emotion. I felt stupid and embarrassed and desperate. I lost files, sent the wrong files, deleted files, duplicated files. I felt like a child.
My mental health deteriorated in direct proportion to the number of files on my computer, as my executive function buckled under their weight. I tried new systems. I edited, renamed, moved and merged files, trying to get some kind of order.
Every minute of every day was spent reminding myself of my own inadequacies. My house descended into chaos and I stopped focusing on finding new clients or getting existing ones to pay
their invoices. I made more mistakes than usual. Icouldn't focus.
I called the GP in tears and ultimately was referred for a mental health assessment. But none of the boxes on the questionnaire seemed to fit my circumstances. I asked for an assessor who knew something, anything about ADHD and was told they couldn't provide that. Rock bottom came when I called the First Response service and was given websites for paid coaches fresh from a Google search. It was clear that help was not out there.
I was spending almost all of my time managing, explaining or thinking about my disability. My brain was barely functioning and my debts were mounting. My relationship broke down. I had burned out. I gave up the fight.
In short, I had failed...
