Who am I? Losing Myself to Chronic Illness

Diary of a Chronically Ill Neurodivergent Female: Week Ten

Somewhere between the third GP referral, the eleventh EHCP (Education and Health Care Plan) meeting, and my fifteenth prescription for a condition I still can’t pronounce, I realised I’d lost myself. Not in a poetic, eat-pray-love sort of way. I mean genuinely, bewilderingly lost. As in, “Who even am I anymore, and why is there a half-eaten fish finger in my bra?”

I used to be someone, you know. I had interests, opinions, a wardrobe that didn’t consist entirely of leggings and oversized jumpers. I had hobbies! A skincare routine! I read novels for fun instead of neurodevelopmental reports. But chronic illness and parenting a neurodivergent child teamed up like a double act from hell, and now my entire life feels like a chaotic, never-ending episode of Survivor: NHS Edition.

Let me explain.

The slow unravelling of self

It started quietly. A few aches and pains here, a vague fatigue there. Nothing dramatic. I assumed I was just tired. After all, parenting is exhausting, especially when your child doesn’t fit neatly into the tidy box that society labels as “typical.”