Content note: This piece discusses suicidal ideation and trauma. If you’re struggling, please don’t hesitate to reach out. Resources are at the end.
For 34 years, I lived with ADHD, and never once needed mental health services.
I’d worked through the front line during COVID, wards, diabetes clinics, and mental health services. Thirty-hour weeks, raising three children, advocacy work on the side, a mortgage, a routine that worked. No medication. No therapy. No “management plans.”
I exhibited all the familiar traits, including constant energy, rapid processing, big emotions, and the usual executive-function challenges, but I’d built systems that worked for me. Hyperfocus helped me manage multiple critically unwell patients in acute medicine, keep the children organised, and continually take in new information while noticing details others missed. My ability to process information quickly meant I performed at my best in emergencies, where a calmness always settled over me, and my emotional intensity helped patients feel genuinely seen. ADHD wasn’t a weakness; it was often the thing that set me apart.
Then trauma arrived, and everything changed.
It didn’t just add stress. It felt like my brain had been rewired overnight. The mechanisms that sustained me for decades suddenly stopped working, and I had no idea why.
The Day My Superpower Became My Kryptonite
My brain had always processed quickly, scanned constantly, thrived on stimulation. But introduce PTSD into that system, and it accelerated into something I didn’t recognise.
My productive energy turned into agitation, and I couldn’t settle. My hyperfocus became locked onto legal papers and perceived threats, rather than the work I loved. My rapid thinking spiralled into intrusive loops I couldn’t escape. The emotional depth that made me a good nurse now overwhelmed me.
I wasn’t overreacting. My brain was in neurological overload, and I felt utterly destabilised by it.
When Everything I Knew Stopped Working
I’d built a toolkit over 34 years, honing my structure, movement, and ability to thrive in high-pressure environments, where empathy guided me. It had served me well.
Trauma dismantled all of it.
Leaving the house felt unsafe. My routines collapsed under flashbacks that came from nowhere. My hyperfocus became a prison, locking me onto court documents and risk assessments. The empathy that once guided me now overwhelmed my nervous system, leaving me unable to function.
I kept thinking: Why can’t I just cope like I always have?
But this wasn’t about resilience. My brain was prioritising survival at any cost. And my three children were watching me disappear in real time. They didn’t understand why. How could they, when the system couldn’t either?
They watched me lose the ability to live, to take them out, to walk into a shop, to function, even to eat without vomiting. They slowly had to learn what PTSD meant and why I was no longer the person I once was. They saw me retreat, pull down walls, teach myself DIY, and avoid driving the routes we used to sing along. They learned why I needed to stop suddenly, why certain songs grounded me while others didn’t, why I would drop to my knees to stop myself from fainting, why I constantly looked over my shoulder, and why I withdrew from family and friends. I needed the house, them, and work; anything more overwhelmed me.
The worry they tried to hide, the questions they didn’t know how to ask, I saw all of it, and I felt powerless to stop what they were witnessing.
When My Neurodiversity Became a Weapon
The psychological fallout wasn’t the only battle to be fought. The systems around me made everything worse.
In family court, my ADHD, the same neurotype I’d successfully lived with for 34 years, was suddenly reframed as evidence that I was “violent and aggressive because she has ADHD.”
That allegation came from someone with a lengthy criminal history. Yet his behaviour was never questioned. Never scrutinised.
I wasn’t given the chance to respond. My neurodiversity became their weapon. His history became invisible.
At the same time, I lost four stone in seven weeks. I was vomiting constantly, barely eating, and my body was in physiological shock. I could see myself disappearing. Clothes hanging off me. The faces of my children when they looked at me, the worry they tried to hide, the questions they didn’t know how to ask. But instead of recognising trauma, I was told, “It’s mediation stress.”
I had to prove otherwise, while being retraumatised in real time.
ADHD didn’t harm me; it never had in 34 years, and it wasn’t about to start now. What harmed me was bias, ignorance, and procedural failures that couldn’t tell the difference between a neurotype and a threat.
And the emotional cost was devastating.
Watching DARVO Play Out in Real Time
I finally found a name for what I was experiencing: DARVO — Deny, Attack, Reverse Victim and Offender.
He denied. He attacked my credibility. He recast himself as the victim — and me as the risk.
And instead of identifying the pattern, the agencies reinforced it. I watched it happen in real time — and felt utterly powerless to stop it.
Over and over, I was told: “Focus on your mental health.”
But at that stage, I didn’t have a mental health history. I had ADHD — and a system that couldn’t tell the difference between neurodiversity and pathology.
The cruel irony? It was the retraumatisation — the system’s response to me — that created the PTSD I now live with.
That distinction matters to me.
Shutdown: When Survival Looks Like Withdrawal
When the overload became too much, my life narrowed in ways I’d never experienced.
Messages went unread. Noise became physically intolerable. Engaging with anyone felt unsafe.
From the outside, I know it looked like I was withdrawing. Avoiding. Giving up.
But inside, it felt like my brain had thrown a circuit breaker to prevent complete collapse. I wasn’t checking out, I was trying to survive.
I had to learn to recognise the early signals, because by the time I hit shutdown, it was too late: my thoughts became too loud, sensory overload creeping in, and I avoided my phone and people, experiencing irritability that felt foreign to me, fatigue, and headaches, along with a desperate urge to disappear and decompress.
I learned: respond early, or collapse entirely.
This wasn’t a weakness. It was my brain trying to protect itself.
The Day I Almost Didn’t Survive
April 17th, 2024.
That’s the day my three children almost lost me.
I had planned it in silence, convinced that my pain was too much to share, that my children deserved better than a mother who couldn’t hold herself together under the weight of a system that kept failing us. No one knew. No one saw the signs because I’d become an expert at hiding them. I gave away everything of value, belongings, keepsakes, pieces of myself that meant something. I disguised it as decluttering, but it was actually a form of generosity. No one questioned it because I made it look intentional.
What pulled me back wasn’t strength or sudden clarity. It was someone telling me that in their 38‑year career, they had never met anyone who had done what I had to protect my children, even in the circumstances I was facing. Hearing that forced me to see the reality of what I’d already survived. I booked an urgent GP appointment that day and asked for help. For a few months, I found a small space to begin processing the abuse.
My youngest, an old soul even before turning four, seemed to sense everything. At the strangest moments, when the outside world was being shielded, and my mind felt tortured, she would say something that reminded me why I had fought so hard to keep them safe.
I used to believe that suicide was selfish, and I still understand why people feel that way when they’re the ones left behind. But living inside a mind with no respite, in a world that no longer makes sense, carrying pain no one else can see, can push a person to a place where they feel they can’t survive anymore.
That level of mental pain affects every part of the body and feels endless. People in that state don’t need judgment.
They need reminders of who they are, what they’ve survived, and that they matter. And we all need to check in on the friends who suddenly withdraw, give away belongings, or seem “lighter” in a way that doesn’t match their reality.
I’ve never written about this in such detail before. For a long time, I couldn’t even think about it. I had been threatened with suicide as a form of control for so many years, but I’m not that person anymore. Something shifted. I lost the fear that had ruled me. I let go of a phobia I’d carried for more than twenty years. I became a different person.
When you’re facing someone who has harmed you and your children, and the people meant to protect you don’t, it demands a strength you never knew you had.
I realised that my silence and everything I had been forced to endure could become my children’s future if I didn’t break the cycle.
The system’s failure to protect me couldn’t become my failure to protect them from further harm or from the grief that would follow.
After that, survival became minute‑by‑minute. Getting out of bed. Making breakfast for three children who needed me.
Going to work was the only thing that gave me some living, because it was there that I didn’t have to be the victim, tortured by the life she was being forced to live; I could be the nurse protecting others from feeling the pain.
So I was putting one foot in front of the other, not because I felt strong, but because I had passed the point of survival; I was merely existing.
My children lost part of their mum over the past two years.
But things are better now. Not perfect, I still have hard days, days when the circuit breaker threatens to flip, but I have language for it now. I have strategies that work for an injured brain, not just a neurodivergent one. And my children are getting a mum back who understands that vulnerability isn’t weakness, that asking for help is a sign of strength, and that healing is possible.
They got a different version of me: a stronger one.
Silence almost cost me everything. It nearly took me from my children. I thank the stars not through death, but through a system that couldn’t see the injury for what it was, and through my belief that I had to carry it alone.
Rebuilding Function From Scratch
Living with this meant redesigning everything:
Lower sensory environments. Adjusting to being triggered, Clear boundaries. Simplified routines I could actually maintain. Structured pauses before I hit the breaking point. Learning trauma-informed self-regulation. Knowing when to escalate to support.
It’s disciplined. Pragmatic. Protective.
And it’s kept me functioning, for myself, and for my three children who needed me to survive.
The Moment Everything Shifted
For a long time, I genuinely feared admitting I was suffering to close my eyes at night, that the reliving and symptoms had become so severe, the problem was me. My worry was that I would be viewed differently if others knew I had ptsd, whether it was friends, family, or my colleagues.
Then I attended a lecture on neuroimaging.
They showed scans side-by-side, PTSD compared to traumatic brain injury. Disrupted pathways. Altered regulation systems. Structural stress patterns.
What I’d been experiencing wasn’t weakness. It wasn’t instability. It was a neurological injury.
And in that moment, something clicked: This isn’t my fault. My brain is functioning exactly as a brain with an injury would.
I felt anger. Relief. Grief for the years I’d spent apologising. But mostly — validation.
Understanding the neuroscience gave me language. It gave me dignity. It gave me the confidence to return to work.
The Conversation That Changed Everything
Returning to work after a two-month absence, the longest of my career, was awful. My desk, once a safe space, now held the imprint of police visits and ongoing abuse. Very few people knew what I’d been living through, and I walked back into the surgery carrying all of it, unseen.
I wasn’t meant to be seeing patients that day, but in reception I bumped into one of my regulars trying to book an urgent appointment. I offered to see them the next day.
That night, I spiralled. I worried that everything I’d endured had taken something vital from me. If every system meant to protect my children and me had failed, would it have changed me? Had it damaged the part of me that cared for others? I stayed up late with my neuroscience module, printing brain-scan images and staring at the affected areas, desperate to know whether my compassion, my ability to connect, was still intact.
The next day proved it was.
The patient had been struggling with her Alzheimer’s diagnosis, so I sat with her and her family and explained the neuroscience behind it. I showed them the scans, talked through what was happening in her brain, and what it meant for her memory and future. Her daughter and son, whom I knew well, watched closely. She knew I wasn’t just teaching; I was working something out inside myself.
Then something shifted.
I asked her, with her cardiology background, to talk me through how she’d treat a heart attack. She explained the protocols, interventions, monitoring, and rehabilitation. And then I asked: Why is the brain any different from the heart?
She looked at me and said, “There isn’t one.”
We talked about illness, prevention, acceptance, and the parallels between the organs. And it hit me:
We would never expect a heart to heal solely through willpower. We shouldn’t expect a brain to, either.
A heart attack needs intervention, monitoring, and rehabilitation. A brain injury, PTSD, deserves the same.
That conversation brought me back. Not just to work, but to myself.
I hadn’t expected anything; I certainly hadn’t expected to feel seen in that moment.
The kindness of it, the intention behind it, broke through everything I’d been carrying.
I cried, not out of sadness, but because for the first time in a long time, someone’s gesture reminded me that what I do still matters, and that I hadn’t lost the part of me that connects with people.
Why I Refuse to Be Ashamed of Needing Help
I functioned independently for 34 years, and I still needed mental health support after trauma.
That’s not a weakness. That’s an injury that requires treatment.
We wouldn’t tell someone with spinal trauma to “push through.” We wouldn’t tell someone recovering from a heart attack to just “focus on staying positive.”
Brains deserve the same standard.
Where the System Failed Me
Police guidance on supporting neurodivergent victims exists. Across my entire case, one officer seemed aware of it, and that officer’s understanding stood in stark contrast to every other interaction I had. They inquired about my processing style and sensory needs. They didn’t treat my ADHD as evidence; they treated it as context.
One person who recognised neurodivergence for what it actually is.
That’s not a training gap. That’s a safeguarding failure.
My ADHD didn’t cause the harm I experienced. The stigma around it did.
My neurodiversity strengthened my analytical thinking. It accelerated my learning. It heightened my risk awareness. It improved my advocacy.
I thrived with ADHD for 34 years.
The last two years, I’ve had to survive while living with PTSD created by repeated retraumatisation.
ADHD shaped how I process the world. Systemic failures shaped how the world treated me.
Both truths matter.
What I Know Now
Neurodiversity is not pathology. It’s not evidence of risk. And it should never be weaponised in courtrooms or policing.
The harm I experienced wasn’t created by ADHD. It was created by bias, DARVO, and institutional failure to understand neurodivergence.
Yet despite everything, my neurodiversity remains my strength.
It fuels my learning. It drives my purpose. It keeps me engaged, analytical, and compassionate.
I thrived with ADHD for 34 years. For over two years, I’ve lived alongside PTSD, and I’m rebuilding.
Both realities coexist. Neither excuses abuse. And neither should ever be used as a weapon against survivors.
Now I see the pain in others that I felt then, in the families I work with through NAAVoices, in the survivor stories that mirror my own. I recognise it immediately. And I refuse to let them drown in silence the way I nearly did.
What I’d Tell Myself Two Years Ago
If I could go back to before April 17th, 2024, I’d tell myself: This will break you open, but it won’t break you.
You’ll lose six stone, teeth from the stress-induced vomiting. Your hair will fall out. You’ll lose your sense of safety. You’ll temporarily lose yourself. Your children will watch you disappear, and that will be the hardest part to forgive yourself for.
But your ADHD isn’t the problem. The system’s response to it is.
And you’ll survive this, not despite your neurodiversity, but in many ways, because of it.
Your brain isn’t broken. It’s injured. And just like that, a heart you know how to treat can heal.
Your three children will get more of you back. Not the same version, but a stronger one. Someone who spent 34 years believing she understood mental health, only to realise she knew nothing until she survived PTSD and learned how to live openly with a mental health condition. Someone who now knows that honesty isn’t weakness; it’s strength, especially in a world where stigma still exists.
Through lived experience, I see the pain in others’ eyes, the pain no one recognised in mine. And because of that, I ask the questions. I advocate. I remind people that their lives matter, because they do. I know now that the brain deserves the same care, compassion, and rehabilitation as any other organ.
I became someone who survived.
For 34 years, I never needed support for my mental health. For the past two years, I’ve learned to live with PTSD. My therapy came through training, courses, and a deep need to understand my own brain. Everyone heals differently, and for me, giving back to others was the beginning of my healing journey, and there’s no shame in that. My brain, like any other organ, deserved treatment when it was injured. And now, slowly, with the right support, it’s healing.
If you’re in crisis:
- Samaritans: 116 123 (UK) – Available 24/7
- Crisis text line: Text SHOUT to 85258
- NHS 111 (select mental health option)
For neurodivergent survivors: Visit NAAVoices.com for trauma-informed, evidence-based resources created by and for families navigating complex systems.
