While I was undercover at a far Right conference in Italy last year, it was easy to hide how I really felt about the people I was ‘befriending’. I’d been feigning enthusiasm for years.
Just before I went on that trip, I’d finally gone to see my GP. After nine months of therapy I was still utterly miserable, and my counsellor had suggested it was time to start trying pills.
It had felt good to say the words out loud – “I think I have some combination of depression and ADHD.” And it had felt even better when the doctor listened, asked careful questions, prescribed fluoxetine for the former and referred me to a specialist for the latter – leading to a diagnosis this spring.
