I was diagnosed with ADHD, combined type, at the fabulous age of 40. I sought out a diagnosis “late” in life because I was 99.9 per cent sure I had it. I figured a definitive answer would do one of two things: either explain my entire personality or force me to stop using ADHD as an excuse for it.

The diagnosis itself wasn’t particularly surprising. Many of my mates reckoned they could have made it years ago. In fact, many did. What fascinated me wasn’t the diagnosis, it was the assessment.

Fundamentally, ADHD assessments rely heavily on observable childhood behaviour. But my childhood behaviour wasn’t just shaped by neurology. It was shaped by fear, gender, class, culture and, more importantly, my parents’ fists.

There was no way on God’s green Earth that I, Poppy Jay, could afford to be disruptive. I would have come home to a cane, a slap or whatever object happened to be nearest. Usually a trainer, expertly lobbed at my face. The assessment assumes your symptoms were visible. Mine never had the luxury of being visible.

I hadn’t realised quite how many questions I’d have to answer. By the second appointment, after hearing variations of the same questions over and over, the assessment began to feel like a multiple-choice exam. I had a gut feeling there were “right” answers and “wrong” answers. It wasn’t that I wanted to game the system. I just became acutely aware that the assessment seemed to be looking for a very particular kind of childhood.

The clinicians asked their questions and I answered as honestly as I could.

“Did teachers say you........

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