Navigating a Neurodiverse Mind My Journey Through Anxiety, PTSD, and an Adult ADHD Diagnosis

For years, I knew my brain didn’t quite work the way other peoples seemed to — but for the longest time, I couldn’t put a name to it.

As a child, I experienced selective mutism, a condition often misunderstood as shyness but rooted in intense anxiety. I would freeze in social situations, unable to speak, even when I desperately wanted to. Adults around me interpreted it as disobedience or rudeness. I internalised that. It laid the groundwork for what would later become a diagnosis of generalised anxiety disorder (GAD) in my teens.

That diagnosis made sense. I was constantly on edge, always worrying — about everything and nothing at once. But while the anxiety label explained part of the chaos in my mind, it never quite told the whole story.

In my 20s, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) entered the picture. Like many, I carried trauma I did not fully process until adulthood. Flashbacks, hyper vigilance, emotional numbing — the symptoms weren’t just disruptive; they were exhausting. It was around this time I started realising just how complex mental health can be. It’s never just one thing. It’s a web — tangled, overlapping, often hidden beneath a mask of “I’m fine.”

But the biggest turning point came in 2024: I was diagnosed with ADHD — something that, in hindsight, had been shaping my life all along.

The Missed Signs

Like many women, my ADHD flew under the radar for decades. I was not bouncing off the walls or getting into trouble at school. I was the “quiet daydreamer,” the child with a messy mind and a million half-finished stories. I was brilliant at hyper-focusing on things that interested me but struggled to follow through on tasks that bored me — no matter how important they were. I blamed myself constantly.

Deadlines were my nemesis. I had bursts of intense productivity followed by burnout and brain fog. My working memory was unreliable. I would interrupt people mid-sentence, not out of rudeness, but because if I did not say it right then, the thought would vanish.

It was not until I began researching neurodivergence in adulthood — initially to help a friend — that the penny dropped. I saw myself in every checklist, every forum, every personal blog. The official diagnosis felt like a relief, but it also brought a wave of grief for all the years spent feeling “lazy” or “too sensitive.”

Why I am Speaking Out

I am sharing this not just to tell my story, but because mental health conversations need to be louder, especially for those of us whose conditions do not present in obvious ways.

Working in healthcare and mental health content means understanding nuance. It is knowing that not all anxiety looks like panic attacks. That PTSD is not reserved for veterans. That ADHD isn’t just a childhood disorder. And that people can live for years — decades even — without knowing there’s a name for their struggle.

That insight gives me a powerful advantage as a writer and editor. I do not just write about mental health from a distance; I live it. I understand how it feels to navigate NHS waiting lists, to explain symptoms to people who do not believe you, to advocate for yourself when you’re already exhausted. That lived experience shapes every sentence I write — with empathy, accuracy, and a deep respect for the audience.

Music Is….

Music is what feelings feel like,

And it is when you realise that the world is not all black and white,

And that instead the world is full of colour,

It is a aha moment,

And that someone you have never met is going through exactly what you are going through,

It is almost as if they have been able to teleport their way through you,

Music has no us and them,

Music is everyone’s friend.

Music makes me feel like I can be my true authentic self,

Under it’s spell I will always be, for good or for worse,

Should be prescribed on the NHS as it is good for your health,

Intrigued I will be, it will never feel like a curse,

Captured by the melodies and forever finding something new from the verses.

I Root Myself

I root myself with learning lessons from the past,

And try not to do it again, 

And will hold my hands up when I abstain from the sunshine,

And go to the dark side of the moon, 

Which is a part of myself that I know will not last,

I root myself in standing up for myself and for others,

And to sticking to my guns, 

Even though at times this is hard, 

And opposition will try to put me off my stride, 

But it will be worth it in the end when myself and others no longer suffer,

I root myself in being the best version of myself,

And even when the bastards try to grind me down, 

And at times they will succeed, 

I will be safe in the knowledge that good always defeats evil in the end,

And that being kind and respectful to others will be very good for my health,

I root myself in that when it is time for me to leave this earth and to become nothing more than just a memory,

That the legacy I leave behind is one that is complimentary and not one that is uncomplimentary. 

Truth Is the Scariest Genre: When Real Life Beats Horror and Sci-Fi

 

For as long as I can remember, I have loved horror and sci-fi movies and TV shows.

My introduction to these genres came from my dad when I was a child. He had two daughters — my older sister was not really into that kind of thing. I, on the other hand, was a tomboy who always gravitated toward interests that society often deems “for boys.” I absolutely lapped it up. Watching horror and sci-fi with my dad wasn’t just entertainment — it was bonding. My mum used to joke that I was the son my dad never had!

To be clear, the content he showed me was not inappropriate or overly violent. It was age-appropriate and often quite tame by today’s standards.

My dad was born in 1947 — a baby boomer — and he grew up during the rise of rock & roll, the British Invasion, and the counterculture. He experienced these movements first-hand, before they became history or nostalgia. And in my opinion, his generation also produced some of the most creative, memorable, and innovative film and TV ever made. The talent in front of and behind the camera during that time still influences modern cinema today.

Because my dad was older than most of my friends’ parents — he was 38 when he had my sister and 41 when he had me — he had a different frame of reference. In the late 1980s, becoming a father in your 40s was considered unusual. Today, not so much. He was ahead of the curve in more ways than one.

The horror and sci-fi he introduced me to — mostly made between the 1940s and 1960s — was far milder than what we see today. Sure, the acting, directing, and special effects were not what they are now, but those films had charm, solid plots, and a creative spirit that completely captivated me. I never thought of them as “old” — they might as well have been made last week.

Interestingly, though, these films and shows never truly scared me.

Even as a child, I could separate fiction from reality. While my husband sometimes has vivid dreams after watching horror, I never have. Monsters, ghosts, ghouls — they never stuck with me because I always knew they were not real. What I found far more terrifying were stories based on true events or things that could happen. That’s the stuff that really got under my skin.

To this day, I say the news is the scariest thing in media. When was the last time you saw a good news story?

The First Real-Life Horror That Scarred Me

The first real-life event that truly frightened me — and still stays with me almost 30 years later — was the Dunblane shootings in 1996.

For those who do not know, the Dunblane massacre took place on 13 March 1996 in a small town near Stirling, Scotland. A 43-year-old man named Thomas Hamilton walked into a primary school gymnasium during a PE class and opened fire with four legally-owned handguns. He killed 16 children and one teacher before taking his own life.

It remains one of the deadliest firearm incidents in UK history.

I first heard about it when I went home for lunch — something I sometimes did when my mum was not working. The lunchtime news was on TV. The reporting continued for days. I remember the unease, the fear, the sorrow — even as a child, I could sense that something horrible and world-changing had occurred.

Soon after, my school installed metal fences and intercoms. Before that, anyone could walk in and out of the building without much scrutiny. It is shocking now to think about how lax security used to be in public spaces.

I also remember a documentary aired at the time. The only moment that’s stuck with me is a father showing a paint-by-numbers picture his daughter had started — a picture she would never finish. That one image hit me harder than any horror film ever could.

There was also a charity single released for Dunblane — a cover of Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door — which I had forgotten about until recently when I saw a repeat of Top of the Pops from 1996 on BBC Four.

The Dunblane shootings marked a loss of innocence for me. It was the first time I realised the world was capable of things even my parents could not protect me from. Around that same time, I became aware of the concept of death. No one close to me had died yet, but the understanding that life could end — suddenly and unfairly — hit me hard.

And what made it worse? The children killed at Dunblane were just a year younger than me. When tragedy strikes someone close to your age, it feels especially personal. They are of your generation. They could have been in your class, your school, your life.

It is a sobering reminder of how fragile life is — and how important it is to live in the moment. Of course, that’s easier said than done.

Scarred for Life — Literally

I was inspired to write this article for two reasons.

First, I discovered the Scarred for Life book and podcast series in 2023. Created by Stephen Brotherstone and Dave Lawrence, they explore dark and disturbing pop culture from the 1970s and 1980s in the UK. What struck me most was how many people, like me, were haunted more by real-world scenarios than fictional monsters. Until then, I thought I was alone in believing that truth is the scariest genre. Clearly, I’m not.

Second, I recently watched the Netflix documentary Fred and Rose West: A British Horror Story. For those unfamiliar, Fred and Rose West were a British couple responsible for a series of brutal murders over several decades. The documentary did not reveal much new information, but it did include actual video and audio footage of both Fred and Rose — something I had never seen before.

That footage made the crimes feel chillingly real. No reenactments, no dramatisations — just raw reality. Hearing their voices, seeing their faces, made everything feel far more immediate and disturbing.

In 2011, a drama titled Appropriate Adult depicted part of the West case. Dominic West, Monica Dolan, and Emily Watson gave eerie, accurate performances that, in hindsight, must have drawn from this same real footage. Their portrayals were uncanny.

In Conclusion

So, do I still believe that real life beats fictional horror and sci-fi?

You bet I do.

Real-life horror stays with me because it actually happened. It is believable, personal, and threatening in a way that no monster or alien ever could be. These stories remind me that terrifying, random events can happen to anyone. They shatter our sense of safety and challenge our understanding of the world. They evoke deeper empathy — and sometimes even trauma.

They are not just stories. They are warnings.

And for me, it all began with the Dunblane shootings — the first moment I truly felt that the world could be dangerous. The first real-life horror story that etched itself into my memory.

In the words of the BBC’s Crimewatch…

“Don’t have nightmares.”