This week, I hesitated while signing up for a half-marathon because the form asked whether I have a “disability”. My mouse hovered over the button, dithering between “yes” and “no”. I don’t think of myself as disabled, even though ADHD is legally recognised as a disability in the UK under the Equality Act 2010 if it has a “substantial and long-term adverse effect” on your ability to carry out normal day-to-day activities. Like going shopping in a supermarket? I can’t do that. But I still think it’s an outrage to give people like me a blue badge.
The number of people with “hidden disabilities” applying for blue badges has trebled in three years to 55,000, up from 18,000 in 2021 – helped, some say, by viral videos on social media coaching people on how to game the system using ADHD diagnoses. It’s impossible to break down and find out how many rogue operators there are. When the Department for Transport extended the scheme in 2019, it included people with Parkinson’s disease, dementia, physical disabilities such as lupus and arthritis, autism, sight or hearing loss, chronic pain and mental health issues – all legit.
Blue badges are meant for those who can’t make a journey without “a risk of serious harm to health or safety”, “considerable physical distress” or difficulty with “both the physical act and the experience of walking”. Unless you have a combined diagnosis, such as ADHD and a physical disability, or your ADHD causes debilitating anxiety, then a blue badge for ADHD alone doesn’t feel right. I say this as someone who hasn’t been able to shop in a large supermarket for a decade.
Stepping into a big, noisy shop feels like torture – the equivalent of taking my brain out and chucking it in a washing machine. Supermarkets are the worst for my neurodivergent sensory sensitivity. The lights are too dazzling, the acoustics echoey and loud, and the shelves heaving with colourful produce interrupt my ability to talk, think or remember even the simplest items on my list. I’ve tried coping strategies: earplugs, headphones, mnemonics like “CAT” (crisps, avocado, toilet paper). But something in my brain always disrupts the process. Nine times out of ten, I leave my basket on the floor and walk out empty-handed.
I pay an ADHD “tax” – I use more expensive smaller shops, get food delivered, and splash out on recipe boxes like Gousto to avoid going out. Like so many women, I didn’t find out I had the condition until my thirties. At school, I was a “daydreamer” who “couldn’t focus”. Eventually, I discovered ADHD runs through three generations of my family. But I’d rather avoid going shopping altogether than feel like a fraud by parking right outside when I don’t really need to.
