… “You will be outside the benefits office kicking cans up and down the street whilst waiting for your cheque.”
Take a moment, imagine a young teenager, lost and often panicked, trying to fit into a world that shuns them. Imagine a person who is responsible for looking after them, guiding them, providing them with the tools to cope and survive in life, spitting those words at them.
Diagnosed with ADHD at 43, and finally living the life I want, for once feeling like I belong. Pursuing the career that I should have done first — and forever. This is my part in the worldwide story that is adult ADHD. A ‘success’ despite the statistics — and opinions! Happy, despite the symptoms, and the challenges.
Following my call to the bar of England and Wales and having secured a civil and commercial pupillage at 3 Paper Buildings Chambers (3PB), my publicist (Michelle McTernan Management) secured an article in Northern Ireland’s ‘biggest Sunday national newspaper’ — the Sunday Life. Interviewed by one of Northern Ireland’s finest journalists, Stephanie Bell. I shared a bit of my back story, and how I got to be where I find myself today, embarking on a new life, the life I feel I always was supposed to live.
The story went on to be huge, thousands of people read it. Over and over, and over, the stories were shared by those who had read mine, and they could relate. Though, there were some differences, the central narrative was in most instances the same. I quickly realized, that whilst I was the person telling this story, for this article, I did not have an exclusive or unique ownership to it. This story was the story, of people the world over, 366.3 million approximately, that’s the number of people around the world currently diagnosed with ADHD.
Walking into the classroom, the dull fluorescent tube light burning, more than a floodlight. My head not quite dizzy, but certainly light and unable to find a static position.
My friend talking endlessly, as they describe every detail of their weekend, I just want to bark GET TO THE BLOODY POINT WOULD YOU, a jumbled collective noise of teenagers, vying for attention, their accents, their laughing, the high and low tones of their voices that have almost, but not quite yet broken, all individually piercing me singularly, yet at the same time ‘en masse’ engulfing me.
My inner thoughts, battling, telling me to leave, but demanding I stay, a nervous energy swirling and bubbling in my gut, trying to warn me anxiously to leave.
The seat I have been allocated in front of me, a throne of thorns would be more appealing. It’s on the wrong side of the room, and it’s on the inside closest to the wall, I can’t move my left arm enough and that causes it to hurt, a dull ache pain, and then it starts my twitches off, small shoulder flicks, they become bigger, then my face not wanting left out of the action joins in, eyebrows one a time lifting and lowering and then simultaneously, not to be outdone my nose decides to make its presence felt, nostrils flaring, inner nostrils starting to itch causing it to contract and twitch.
Oh no, here comes the throat thing! A lump like feeling, a cough, it’s not quite ready to be coughed, a tightness of sorts, I cough to send it on its way, it makes it worse, I am conscious semi-coughs will look like I am messing, I move to throat clearing, that doesn’t work either.
I don’t like to sit on the inside, it makes me feel trapped, the plastic chair causes me to itch, I can feel every one of those little lumps in the plastic that are supposed to be some sort of pattern — why would anyone put that on a chair? Haven’t they read princess and the pea? I’m not a princess though, that would be gay! I don’t want to scratch as someone might notice, and yell that I have flees, the line of my socks is offside, and my horrible school shoes are uncomfortable.
The collar of my shirt is causing a ridge around my neck, it is unsympathetically pushed in, like a noose, by the tie I must wear, the same tie, I fear might be pulled into the tiniest of knots in jest, by a fellow pupil who may, or may not like me — which will be impossible to undo later. Why am I not the same as all the others? Are they weird? Or am I weird?
The very tie, that identifies me, as belonging to the catholic school I attend, in the mainly protestant town I live in, on the edge of the protestant housing estate, the same one I must travel through to get home, and then live in, amongst the many protestants who also live there. Although some of them are great mates, I can never be fully sure if I am going to be ‘jumped’ for a ‘kicking’, always gingerly dodging potential enemies, like swimming in a muddy river, filled to the banks with crocodiles and alligators. I don’t like swimming in rivers or the sea — no idea what’s in the water!
When I get home today, I am going to put my feet up and relax, it’s been a long day. Oh, I forgot! I will need to ‘nip’ to the shop to get dinner in. I’ll go on my bike, I need to change out of my uniform first though, as the chain might stain my inner trouser legs with oil, I should have worn my black trousers instead of these crappy grey ones. Who wears grey trousers anyway? I feel like a taxi driver, or someone’s ‘da’ that loves playing darts! I shouldn’t have put so much oil on the chain. I love my bike. But I also really like my friend’s bike, it has ‘mag’ wheels. ‘Mag’ wheels!? Why are they called ‘mag’ wheels?
Someone-in-here-is-tapping-their-pen. The tapping is going through me, I wish they’d stop, I wonder who it is, JOE! STOP TAPPING THAT PEN! Oh no! He’s just shown me it wasn’t him; I feel embarrassed and he’s getting very defensive – I’m really starting to get wound up now!
Why is the window open? its winter! I’m cold now, my hands are changing color, purple with orange dots, ewwww that’s ugly! I’m glad I’m not ugly, but I’m not as good looking as your man over there, he looks like someone out of New Kids on the Block, shut up! Stop saying boys are good looking — that’s gay! My ‘bird’ is well hot! Everyone fancies her, but she doesn’t know about me and my mate, and the things we get up to in the hut we built.
… Stop thinking about that!! That’s gay stuff!! I’m not gay, it’s just messing we do, anyway, if I was gay that would mean he’s gay, and he isn’t gay — sure, he’s brilliant at football, and he’s one of the best fighters on our estate. Nah! Not gay! NO WAY!
…It’s because its cold [the hand colors] – is it though? Do I have something wrong with me? Is this some weird disease? Not going to the doctor, he smells, and he talks funny, he always gets gloop at the side of his mouth — ewwww! Why do I always notice people’s smells? Why do even nice smells sometimes annoy me? Sore heads from smells? What even is that!? Sore heads give me sore eyes, then I must lie down and get tired, and then I miss going out, and won’t see my TV shows.
I wonder is Grange Hill on tonight? It’s so good that show, but the teachers seem too nice in it – that’s not very real. But its ok. I wonder what it would be like in a borstal? They keep threatening me with it. But I’ve been on residentials with the youth club, and they’re ‘some craic’!
That wee lad in first year, ugh! Can’t remember his name he was in one of those borstals! He always had really cool new trainers, and money for the tuck shop, I suppose it can’t be all that bad, wish I could stop doing this throat clearing thing — it’s pissing me off.
Oh! Here she comes Miss Bloggs, her face looks angry — AGAIN! I hate that we get her for a double period after lunch — she’s always pissed off! Why does she have to take it out on us? She hates me!
…She has never been nice to me; I remember that time she made me stand up in front of everyone whilst she yelled and screamed at me, for ages — and for what? Sharpening my pencil!? So, what, that it was my third time that lesson, the itchy chair was torture, I needed to get up, and my mate’s deodorant was hurting my head, I couldn’t think straight.
“MILLER!” Oh no! She’s coming for me; “did I see you smoking at lunch time behind the music rooms?”
…”Don’t know can you prove it, Miss?” She’ll need to have evidence if she thinks she is going to take me down! Oh no! I have the cigarettes in my bag, damn! I’m snared! Bet they confiscate them, I had to sell two dinner tickets to get them!
… “GET OUT!”
Oh, here we go, take me outside, where there aren’t any witnesses, so she can be a total bitch to me!
“NO! You get out! I’m entitled to an education!”
That seems to have worked, everyone is in ruptures, maybe they do like me, maybe I do ‘fit in’ — got to keep going, can’t lose face now! Oh, she’s just pulled my desk out, and she has pushed it across the floor with one fling — it nearly hit Mary!! Ha ha Mary is raging, she [Mary] is glaring at me!! Oh, look at Bloggs face its purple, its matching the color of my hands!
“GET OUT NOW AND GO STRAIGHT TO THE HEAD!!”
Oh, she’s really losing her cool now! I am feeling embarrassed now too, I can feel the tears welling at the back of my eyes, mustn’t cry, if I cry everyone will know I’m gay, WHAT!!? I am NOT gay; I can’t be gay — that’d be the worst thing ever! How do I exit without losing my kudos? Turn it around.
…“Tell you what witchy face, I am leaving, you can stick your class, nobody even likes ye’ anyway!”
The route to the door isn’t clear, bodies, school bags, plastic carrier bags, why do girls always have an extra plastic carrier bag with books in it? Why do they need all those books? Imagine rocking up to school with a VG, or SPAR bag, I feel wick for them! Though the posh birds, they always carry them fancy ones like Debenhams, or Marks and Spencer ones, Marks-and-Spencer, that sounds weird doesn’t it!? Right! The tears are coming, get out quick, push the chair backwards noisily as you get up, don’t forget to make a face at everyone behind Witchey’s back. Why am I doing this? I don’t even know how I got here? Oh yes, she shouted at me, she’s always shouting, she hates me.
I remember one time though, she was nice, she even asked me about things that had nothing to do with school, I liked her that day, why can’t she always be like that? I feel a wee bit sorry for her now. No! She’s a snob and looks down at me — sod her! Best grab my school bag, nip to the toilets for a smoke when I get out of here.
… I’m out now, I’ve got my bag, I’ve got my cigs, I’ve slammed the door, everyone LOVED it! …It’s quiet in the corridor, the polish smell stinks, and the squeak of the floor which is worn from over-polishing and too many feet is dusty from the same, it goes through me, all of me, as I walk on it, don’t step on the lines you’ll get bad luck!
Why is that light flashing? Ah, the bulb will need changed, I hate those bulbs, that horrible color, it makes me feel depressed, who would invent a light like that? Bet they’re depressed!
Depression, that was something old big feet used to talk about in history about a time in the old days or something. I hate history, though isn’t now history? in a second, it’ll be history, in fact everything I say instantly becomes history as soon as I say it. Oh, that would make a cool story for english class, or should it be history?
Doesn’t matter it’ll all be history anyway, and I hate doing english anyway, Miss hairy chin speaks too low, her room is too hot, the displays on the walls of all the ‘snobby’ kids’ stories, her favourites! It [the work] and they [the students] are crap and they’re curling at the edges, the way they curl annoys me, I really want to flatten them, or just pull them down, they’re crap anyway.
Shouting or mumbling they’re always one or the other — why can they not even speak properly? Teachers — ugh! Have I got my lighter? Yes! Beezer! up to the PE toilets for a smoke, hope that creepy teacher isn’t lurking about! He seems unhinged, I heard he once beat a student up after school, that’s mad like!
“Miller! Get back here!”
Oh no! She has come out behind me!
“You told me to go to the head’s office, now you’re telling me to come back Miss, for God’s sake, make your mind up!”
… “Don’t you cheek me back Miller, you wee idiot!”
“That’s nice Miss! Do you kiss your mum with that mouth?”
“You’re nothing Miller, a nothing, that nobody will ever remember, you are useless, if I had my way you would be gone out of this school, but whilst you’re here, you-will-do-exactly-as-you’re-told.”
“No, I won’t, I’ll-do-exactly-what-I-am-happy-to-do!”
Why do I always answer back? Why can’t I just shut up, pretend to agree? Give them what they want, why must my mouth always open? and get me in trouble — I don’t plan it! It just sort of happens! I DONT KNOW, but her nose has hairs hanging from it and her ‘dangly’ earrings are going green round her lobe — ewww need to stop focusing on them, but I can’t, has she got gangrene? Gangrene or gang-er-ene? How is it supposed to be said? Hmmm… doesn’t matter anyway.
Damn! I just remembered, I didn’t bring in the money for cooking tomorrow, we were supposed to leave it up to Miss Hearty before first break, and I didn’t put my stuff in the wash for swimmers either — ugh! Tomorrow is going to be a nightmare… I’ll forge a note for swimmers, and sure Miss Hearty will have to dry her eyes, I’ll give her the money tomorrow and crack on, tomorrow is already stressful, I’m tired and hungry shouldn’t have sold those dinner tickets, but hey! At least I have cigs – smoke time!!
…“You are heading for the dump! Worthless!! You will be outside the benefits office kicking cans up and down the street whilst waiting for your cheque.”
“Got a problem with people on benefits Miss?” …”There’s a school full of kids here, that are relying on benefits – they pay your wages Miss! Bet it doesn’t bother you when you’re cashing that cheque Miss – a cheque you get from people on benefits Miss.”
… “Shut your mouth Miller, who do you think you are? You need a good slap! Maybe someone will give it to you soon, you certainly deserve whatever is coming to you, you pathetic idiot”
Why is she squeezing my arm, her nails are digging into me, God knows where they have been! She’s doing it on purpose — it’s really, really sore — mustn’t show weakness though! Don’t let her beat me.
…”because you work in a place where people on benefits go Miss, they’re attendance pays the school from the government purse — a benefit Miss, and the charity work done in the parish by people on benefits, that also contributes to the school Miss, I’m near sure my ‘ma’ bought a brick Miss! so here, you are the biggest ‘benefits benefiter’ of all — you’re on benefits Miss!!”
Uh Oh, she’s in my face now, her breath smells, I think she may have had tuna for lunch, nah! Not tuna, she’s too snobby for that! a tin of John West salmon on brown bread, with actual butter, not that fake stuff ‘can’t believe it never ever went near a cow butter’ or whatever it’s called — bet ya!
Oh, and I smell smoke, she has some cheek! ‘slabbering’ at me about smoking, the staff room is in a constant fog of smoke – I should know, I’ve been sent to it at break time many times to write out lines! Why do they make me go in that room, with them? It’s scary, it’s loud, it stinks, it’s too warm, the old fashioned brown boring furniture, and yellowy gloomy walls, they are always filling their faces with their snobby food and slurping coffee whilst looking at me like something they have scraped off their shoe. Their shoes, UGH! Don’t they wear such ugly shoes, shut up about shoes — that’s so gay… I AM NOT GAY!
The above, an example of a day in the mind of teenage me, some of it is fictional, some of it not — I will leave that a mystery!
I attended a Catholic school in Northern Ireland, in a small town which was predominantly of the protestant faith. I lived in a housing estate, which was predominantly protestant too. In case you may have momentarily forgotten where you resided, the painted curbs, the tattered flags, the graffiti warnings to all ‘Taigs’ (Catholics) to get out. The murals on the gable walls, the kids with red, white and blue band poles, that they would throw in the air and twirl — like a cheerleading team member, but with an undertone of sinister intention, not often found on the sidelines of an American school football team we see in the glossy movies.
An estate we were eventually ‘petrol bombed’ out of, like many families catholic and protestant – the Molotov cocktail used distinguishable only by the name of the person throwing it — Catholic if named after a saint, protestant if not!
Schooling was not a happy experience for me. However, schooling me? That cannot have been a happy experience for anyone! They should probably have been presented with a certificate of achievement having managed to remain somewhat sane despite the ‘experience’. I was trouble, quickly identified and branded within hours of my arrival, and five years spent living up to my rank! Never one to do things by half, I led my army by example! Isn’t that what good leaders do?
The nineties in Northern Ireland, they were not an easy era for anyone. The entire country, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year engaged in murderous conflict. Some call it a war, but it was never given such glory officially. Instead, it was ‘christened’ ‘the troubles’. It almost sounds like a temporary condition; something experienced, the morning after a night of indulgence, on a two-week all-inclusive in a sunny resort.
I have many memories of ‘the troubles’, the sadness’s of people injured and killed. Daily news stories reporting of one more home, that would have an empty chair around the table that day, and for the rest of their lives. Reports that doomed those featured, to a lifetime of mourning and questions unanswered. Angry, everyone was angry, and frightened, and often in shock, and then, of course again, angry.
People like me, the council estate fodder, we had not too many expectations placed on us. Especially ‘us’ of ‘themuns’ who failed their 11+ (an exam that determined whether the pupil would attend grammar school or a general secondary school).
I remember the pressure leading up to the 11+, year 7 of primary school, having heard since year 3 (approximately 7 years of age) that not passing the 11+ meant no grammar school, and so a life of mediocre – was the best I might hope for. It was never quite as blunt as that when the message was communicated, but it was there in the inferences, nonetheless.
I failed my 11+ and until I attended university a ripe 35 years’ ‘young’, it was the last exam I had ever taken – having been expelled from secondary school, before enjoying the ‘privilege’ of taking any leaving exams.
My future now written in the stars – the minds of those who hold the keys, had all been set in absolute judgment. A failure, a benefit scamming, freeloading failure, that’s what I was supposed to do. Maybe even knock out a couple of kids — if I am lucky.
Except, it wasn’t. It didn’t happen. A chosen one, I had a streak of luck, that sadly, not everyone gets. I had a family who believed I could run the world. I got signed to a local modeling agency, and I was encouraged to become the best possible version of me! I accepted the challenge gleefully, and so begun my milking of life, for all that it is worth — it has not run dry — yet!
“You only live once” is how the saying goes. I disagree, you only die once! You live 365 new lives every year that you are spared. Each day is a new start, a new opportunity to decide, to change, to remain the same, to live, today is your new life — and tomorrow, a new one begins once more.
I won’t go into all the details of the lives that followed, they have been detailed many times, in many articles, TV shows, radio interviews, podcasts, and even a TEDx Stormont talk, you can check them out in your own time (some links below) should you have a moment not filled with something more interesting. What I will say, the jobs, and the experiences — imagine someone telling you they have ADHD without saying I have ADHD!
However, I must highlight the moment when it all changed. A tragedy struck our family, an unimaginable, metaphoric bomb exploded in our tightly knit clan. My nephew aged 3 when diagnosed and aged four and a bit when he died — had been taken by a selfish, cruel, aggressive brain cancer. It changed us all forever. Bittersweet isn’t that what they say?
I don’t know about that, but I do know, that living through the slow death of a child, that does things to you, that no retreat in the woods, fridge magnet, Instagram reel, Facebook meme, or cliché delivered by a well-meaning friend will ever do. The introspection, and challenge it presents in the aftermath is not one I would wish on anyone, that being said, one I shall forever remain grateful for.
I went to Staffordshire university to take my law degree. I did not ‘do’ a foundation year, I did not complete any courses or training, or seminars, or even a show around before enrolling on the three-year degree.
I picked Staffordshire because of the YouTube video showing the graduation in the most beautifully manicured grounds open and spacious, and green, it tempted me to it like ‘Adam’ setting off for a weekend of glamping in the garden of Eden.
Imagine my shock and horror, when I arrived by taxi 22:30 at night laden with way too much luggage and ejected into a vast carpark, overlooked by concrete, and surrounded by the remnants of a formerly prosperous industrial revolution, pottery city.
The video I had watched was indeed the graduation, which, they stage in a beautiful park several miles away. It was not the grounds of the university. There would be no trees to sit under sipping Valpolicella and reading case judgments! In fact, there would be very little sitting outside at all — it was freezing!
I remember my first day, entering the lecture theatre. It was crammed to the rafters. That new boy at school feeling rising in my veins and triggering every nerve end. Was I wrong to go for a backpack instead of a satchel? Where would I sit? I feel lightheaded, oh! I see some older students at the front, I will sit with them.
Noise, activity, buzzing, drone, as numerous lecturers, student support teams, student unions, student reps, and probably just a few stragglers who saw an opportunity to appear at ‘something’ filed in to talk at us for their allotted time.
Animated, and overly happy, as they delivered their rehearsed oration — and in turn receiving applause from the captive audience filling the room what are you clapping for, you nutcases? they have only told you were the library is, and the fines you get for anything other than breathing – what have I done!? Why am I here!? I have made the hugest mistake of my life and that is saying something. These were the thoughts swirling my mind like wasps.
The three years of university passed in a blink. I made some great friends; some I have kept like treasures that will remain with me forever. Some I very quickly dispensed, like a bouncer emptying a club before the licensing team arrive. There were also a few, that stayed for a longer time but life, schedules, distance, changes of personalities and paths caused them to drift away, I often think of them.
In my three years at university, I was the mooting champion of our league, I was a founding member of the law society, I was elected president of the law society, I took a mini pupillage/placement at an international offshore firm in Gibraltar, I was an ‘adopted big brother’ and mentor to some of my cohort, and I graduated with a first class degree.
It was a wonderful experience, filled with challenge, I learned the art of critical analysis which quickly became a coping mechanism for the symptoms of ADHD that I had never realised were attributable to anything other than my own angst and inner being. I thought everyone was the same – I wonder how many others, like me, feel and think the same?
The postgraduate years? They were not so great! I enrolled on a two-year, part-time bar course postgraduate diploma, and Master of Laws degree (LLM) combined. A small cohort brought together every other weekend for 8 hours per day. It was a fairly good attempt at educating and there were some good moments. However, I really cannot with a straight face, or in any honesty recommend it.
Some of us did well, inevitably there are people who will just always do well. Others, me included-not so much! The lesson structure, the delivery, the mountains of work to be done between sessions, whilst also trying to earn a living. It just did not work. I am confident that there will be some considerable overhaul to bar course training, and I am happy to discuss those reforms with anyone implementing them should they fancy an honest opinion.
I trundled through the modules of the bar course postgraduate diploma, taking the exams passing some first time, others required another go – but I got there. The masters degree was conferred via my representing claimants at appeal tribunals for disability benefits — (our department of work and pensions should shudder with sheer embarrassment for what they put disabled claimants through), I enjoyed representing my clients and I did a good job (if I may so myself). The final piece of work was a written assignment — I submitted my draft, instead of my final piece (and there it is the ADHD unbeknownst to me) regardless I grabbed a commendation, and I was happy enough with that.
Civil litigation, a multiple-choice exam. My biggest academic challenge, a source of significant pain, misery, depression, anxiety and other emotions for which words have not yet been assigned. It was horrendous! Some of the questions have a wrong answer, some of the questions all the answers are correct, you must choose the ‘best’ one! My brain decided that was a big NO!
No matter how many times I sat the exam, no matter the revision, no matter anything, I just could not pass it. The other torture of course being, that I had already passed all the other exams that were in one way, or another the subjects included in this dastardly exam!!
I couldn’t graduate unless I passed, even with an average score that would be deemed a pass, I couldn’t have my masters, even though it was a separate qualification. All that money, all those years of study, the pressure of everyone believing in me, it was all for nothing — I was a failure, I could not get through it!
Pouring my heart out to a friend, also on the course and explaining how as soon as I turned the page on the exam my brain would switch off like a 1980s TV shutting down.
How I would read the questions and by the time I had got to the end of the scenario I had already forgotten the earlier paragraphs and would have to start again. How someone clicking their pen, or breathing loudly would distract me, the rustle of sweet wrappers of students shoving sugar into them as they sweated their way through in the clammy room.
“You know you’re TOTALLY ADHD” she laughed. “WHAT, naaaah!” … “just stupid”. Was my response.
A conversation followed, as did a lot of googling and suddenly I was reading about other people who seemed to be talking about me, when they were sharing their stories. Paragraphs filled with anecdotes and some very sad experiences, all of them entirely relatable.
I went privately for an assessment, not because I am posh, or rich! But, because there was absolutely zero chance of an assessment and treatment on the NHS in any period, that would have been helpful.
It was confirmed my life was severely impacted by combined ADHD and comorbidities. I was given my prescription, and I was now on the path to getting to know the new me, (that is currently a work in progress).
I am pleased to say, reasonable adjustments were granted, I did pass the civil litigation exam first time after diagnosis and adjustments, I got my bar course postgraduate diploma, I did receive my LLM, I did get called to the bar by my Inn (The honourable Society of Lincoln’s Inn), and in my first year since call, I made 1 application for pupillage.
I applied to 3 Paper Buildings (3PB), to the chambers I had identified as being the place I had to be!
I had prior had an interview whilst studying, and through getting to know more about them via various events and exercises, they were the biggest ‘goal’ I had ever in all my endeavours set myself. I am thrilled and honoured to confirm, that they kindly offered me a civil and commercial pupillage which, I will begin April 2024… feel free to instruct me if you’re reading this, all you solicitors (wink, wink).
So, why share my story? Why give so much personal information? Why bring attention to myself? and open myself up to ridicule, and debate?
For 43 years of my life, despite the love that was poured into me by my family and those who chose to stick around. Despite the many different lives, I have lived, the social circles I have inhabited, the high life moments, and the down times.
No matter where I was, I never could find my space. Safe places were temporary, happiness despite how much the smile was painted on, was often a fleeting moment. No matter how anyone, or indeed I tried, I always felt alone.
My article in the Sunday Life newspaper, which is now ‘viral’ brought a response of so many people feeling and experiencing the same. So many children, teenagers, adults, condemned to a life of survival instead of thriving, so many souls not completing their mission in this lifetime — because, like me they have not had the interventions. All of them absolutely deserving a life of self-acceptance and love.
So many, unlike me, who do not have the support and love to hold them up.
For them all, I share my experiences, not because it will cure them. It might, however, reassure them. It might I hope, give them the impetus to stand up and demand more. It might trigger those who can, to adjust their curriculum, or professional practice to better accommodate us. It might just be one more story that goes toward removing the stigma of mental health. It might just do something.
Anthony Miller, 45, ADHD, celebrity columnist, barrister (unregistered), Gay and still single.