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If one day I finally felt moved to tell my family about my condition, I don’t think I would tell them what it’s called, or go into any details. That’s because — to my mind — the stigma is still too raw.

While an internet search nowadays reveals significantly more helpful academic research than was once the case, much of the content they’d likely discover within a few moments of hearing its name remains quite horrendous: both humiliating and misleading.

Nevertheless, sometimes I do feel I should tell them about it. Perhaps it would help them make better sense of many of the actions and choices of my youth. Perhaps it would be more informative than the narrative of an imagined religious fanaticism once thought to hold sway over me. Perhaps my struggles might be appreciated in a whole new light.

But will I? Whenever I contemplate doing so, I soon conclude that too much time has lapsed, and too much has happened. In short, what is to be gained from bringing up a matter that no longer has a material impact either on our relationships, or my day-to-day living? What would it be for? It cannot change anything, after all.

So, in the end, I carry this alone. I’ve had a lifetime to get used to it, and others to get used to me. There’s a new generation coming though, many of them diagnosed in utero, more capable of handling the condition than those of us diagnosed in out late twenties and beyond. These individuals, having accessed effective interventions through infancy and adolescence, will be better placed to challenge the stigma.

As for me: I just have to focus on remaining healthy, trying my best to overcome the legacy of the experiences and deficits which brought me to this point. To put it all behind me, if I can, and to finally move on.