First, it was the lights. Then the extractor fan, then the builders. Then the lights. Oh, the lights. My brain bickers as the lights flicker. Flicker, flicker, flicker. Waiting, waiting, waiting. 2, 4, 7, 12, 20 minutes late. The time passing by, ticking as loud in my head as the fan in the ceiling. Overloaded and over here as I wait my turn. Wait, wait, wait Kate.

And then I’m in. More flickers. My head not so bright as the tubes I’m enduring. Well-meaning nods and regulation NHS tissues await me. Drip, drip the need to tick. Wait, wait, wait Kate. Then the pitch. The reason the NHS should support this autistic ADHD soul. The secondary depression, a result of years of misdiagnosis and mistaken intentions, left to its own crippling devices. No meds, no support, no end to the wait for an ADHD diagnosis. The choices offered rocking up loads of hard places. The Right To Choose the answer to the Tories’ wing and a prayer of ND parity as the 3-year NHS wait becomes 18 months private one. Funding for support groups for those on waiting lists but nothing to pay the diagnosis piper. Another set of standard apologies for the delay – the 2-year wait already a sorry state but you know how it is. Well-meaning excuses for staffing issues and ADHD med shortages. Wait, wait, wait Kate.

And so I do. The tick that loves to hit my head held back like babushka’s in this Kate’s basket, the questions not asked, the rage buried, the masking kicking in. Taking things literally when there is nothing to be taken, the same old story greets me. One day someone will sort this. One day. Until then I wait. Wait, wait, Kate.