What’s wrong with me? Everything. Just ask my best friend of 25 years. Just ask all of my exes. Just ask the algorithm.

Generalised anxiety disorder, depression, ADHD, C-PTSD, PCOS, anaemia and vitamin D deficiency, abandonment issues, an avoidant attachment style, semi-dormant EDNOS, burnout, just a whiff of narcissism, and currently, a tummy ache – the list goes on and on. So do the paper prescriptions stuck to my fridge, a little kineograph that tells a story of a woman with every excuse for her bad behaviour and fundamental shortcomings. The thing is, I’m not sure what’s real any more, and what I’ve tricked myself and a team of medical professionals into believing.

Aware by now that the omnipotent algorithm is cognisant of my every passing thought, it should come as no surprise when my daily doomscroll feeds me content tailored not only to my interests and browsing history, but my very subconscious.

It comes in drips. First it’s a few skits about neuroses ringing at a frequency so high only dogs can sense my impending anxiety attack. Then it’s a slew of rot girl summer content – in which we’re prescribing one to ten days of bed rest for any minor inconvenience – right when my social batteries are whining for a recharge. But then it gets … weird.

Someone forwards me a tweet about how easy it is to write a book, but how difficult it is to fold your laundry, and my posture corrects. Are these people in my house? Am I the star of some kind of really boring Truman Show arrangement?

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I go down a rabbit hole and come to 18 multiple choice questions into a neurotypicality quiz. The offensive continues, and suddenly I’m $1400, three doctor’s appointments, a blood test and an EKG into an ADHD diagnosis I originally got at four years old. And you know what? The pills aren’t helping. I’m procrastinating harder and longer than ever, the only difference being my suppressed appetite and quiet panic: Am I a fraud? Did I fake my way into a diagnosis?

There’s a category of people who love to grumble about the supposedly recent prevalence of neurodiversity in our community. These things simply didn’t exist back in their day. These kids just love to have something wrong with them. (Uh huh).

Part of it is visibility: when it’s safe to be honest about who we are, the stigma simmers down, and more people feel comfortable seeking out the help they need, and that can only be a good thing. But what if I’m one of the people the grumblers are grumbling about? Am I watering down the legitimacy of a very real diagnosis? Throwing back Vyvanse like breath mints, making excuses for skirting deadlines, generally being a menace: how long before much-needed accommodations and empathy dry up? In the quest to make my life easier, am I inadvertently making someone else’s harder?