My daughter sent me an email — to my work email. The email contained a link. My first thought: was this a trusted site? I clicked it after one second of contemplation. Let’s see what my work firewall can handle.
It took me to an NHS page, providing step-by-step guidance on how to get an ADHD diagnosis.
Step 1: arrange an appointment with your GP.
My uterus jumped to my throat. Another item added to my to-do list.
I took a shallow breath to calm down. It did nothing. Then I remembered: deep breaths.
I tried again. Panic.
I thought I was drowning.
Nope.
Still here.
I paused.
I went back to the email for clues.
I am the reason IT runs phishing tests — clicking links without reading. I love hovering over the link and watching it light up. My brain turns off, and my finger turns on. Then I start to worry as soon as I see the circle of death — but by then, what’s the point?
The email subject read: “I think I’ve got this.”
And my husband wasn’t in the email chain — not even cc’d or bcc’d.
This email kicked off months of screening: psychiatrist appointments, chasing up reports, and eventually, discussions with the school.
Where was my husband, you may ask?
He was as useful as a post-it saying, “Good luck.”
Medical visits are not in his parenting repertoire. That’s deemed one of my jobs. No discussion — I’m just better at these things.
Something you should know: I’m 48 years old and still haven’t booked an appointment for HRT. I’ve been in perimenopause since my late 30s!
We eventually received confirmation of her diagnosis. This was not the end — if anything, we were just on chapter one. The diagnosis was merely the prologue.
Now my sweet, sweet girl had more weapons in her arsenal. Suddenly, our roles changed in the house — she was Blue Badge, and I was traffic warden. Any challenge, and I looked like a dick.
I went into her room one evening and asked her to clean up. The room looked like forty children had just vanished, leaving only their clothes. Mess everywhere.
She looked me dead in the eyes and said, “Well, people with ADHD don’t see mess like neurotypical people.”
Then she thrust her Blue Badge in my face.
She came home from school one day and decided she couldn’t wait the half hour until dinner. So she made herself dumplings.
I got downstairs ready to cook — the kitchen was a mess. I asked her to tidy up.
She decided to actively ignore me for three hours. She was about to start cleaning, but now she couldn’t — because of her Blue Card.
ADHD is passed down from one or both parents.
Who the hell does she think she got this “gift” from?
Me!
I’ve done enough online tests to self-diagnose. And anyway, my best friend confirmed it.
I love how empowered she is — her boundary setting.
When I was a child, my mum sat me down. As she stroked my hair from my face, she explained to me there would be no boundaries. She did what the fuck she liked. I needed to be a good girl. No discussion.
As I got into my teenage years and tried to reassert boundaries. My mum came in drunk with menopausal energy on her bulldozer and flattened them. Then she set fire to the land all while wearing her HRT patch.
There was no talk about mental health issues. If we mentioned it, we were reminded of the fact that we were Indian. Other cultures were allowed such ailments this also includes allergies.
I don’t know who has the parenting thing right. But I do know one thing: I was born in the wrong generation.
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