Autobiography of Anonymous

I was born in ******, England, in 1965. I haven't any brothers or sisters. My parents separated when I was three, then I lived just with my mother. She got a boyfriend who worked in ******. We moved there when I was six and she soon married him. My stepfather was very cruel, and my mother allowed him to be. I was very shy, withdrawn and introverted. He thought this was bad behaviour. He said I was childish, selfish and attention seeking. He came up with the theory, which he still believes to this day, that when I was six years old I formed a plan that I would cause their divorce, and force my mother to go mad or commit suicide. All my childhood my stepfather punished me, both for being different and for being normal. I had always known I had a difference. By the time I was about twelve I had begun to think of it as an illness. I saw a child psychiatrist three times when I was twelve. He said he didn't want to see me again. I was always bullied and ridiculed at school. In my report the deputy headmistress wrote, "I can say with confidence that ****** is the brightest girl in the year, yet she has problems with personal relationships that spoil the effect and put people off." Living with my stepfather, and going to school were terrible ordeals I had to get through. My ambition was to be 16, so that I could be free of them both. I stopped going to school.

I went to an adolescent unit in ****** when I was 14. I was given anti-psychotic drugs. I found out I had OCD, by looking in the psychiatry books in the library. I assumed that now I knew what was wrong with me I would be helped, but when I told them the staff didn't believe me. One nurse said I was a waste of National Health Service money, and my problem was that I hadn't had enough good hidings. Overall though I thought they were nice to me, and after nine months, was upset to be discharged. The psychiatrist told my mother there was nothing wrong with me.

I went for some medical tests, an ECG, x-rays, blood, urine and reflexes tests; they said to try to find out what was causing my "problems." They said it might be an under active thyroid! But I didn't know why I needed any tests; they already knew what was wrong with me. I had told them but they took no notice. I was sent to ****** to live with my father's parents. I took an overdose and went to ****** Royal Infirmary and had a stomach pump. I was discharged the next day. Later I saw a child psychiatrist who didn't think there was anything wrong with me, said a hospital was "the wrong place" for me and didn't want to see me again. I saw a psychologist who did some IQ and personality tests, and said there was nothing wrong with me.

I went to a special teaching unit. Most other children had been expelled from ordinary schools. The teacher had previously worked in an adolescent unit. She said she had met people with mental illnesses and I was nothing like them. She said I didn't fool her and she could see through me easily. I also met a headmaster who said I couldn't possibly have OCD, because it was an illness women got after the menopause. I tried to tell my father I had an illness but he did not believe me either. On the phone my stepfather said the reason nobody believed me was that I was lying. My father brought me back to ******. My stepfather said, "Your mother and I have been very happy these last few months, without you here. Now I see you're back again to spoil it. Well I'm not prepared to let you do that." A social worker came and I was told I was going to a children's home.

I saw a doctor and told her I had OCD, but she did nothing. I told the staff and teachers about it but they treated it as a joke, always reacting as though I had claimed to be a Martian. One said I was "playing silly games." They said because I'd been in a psychiatric hospital, I was trying to emulate the behaviour of "mad people" I must have seen there. They said I shouldn't have been there, as I'd been taking the place of someone who deserved to be there. They said I was pretending to have something wrong with me so I wouldn't have to go to school, or live with my stepfather. They said I was too young to know what I was talking about. I saw an educational psychologist who said he understood. I hoped something would be done, but when he'd gone the principal told me "He says he doesn't know what you're talking about either." I attended a children's mental health centre. I regularly saw a psychotherapist. She didn't understand anything I said. I saw a woman from the psychology department who said there was nothing wrong with me, and that it was not sensible of me to have diagnosed myself. I left after six months, on my 16th birthday.

I went to my mother and stepfather's house. He asked what I was doing there, said I wasn't wanted and should go back. I had a home teacher for a few months. I was on the Youth Opportunities Scheme for six months. I had a friend called Carl, who had schizophrenia. I kept trying to tell the social worker I had an illness. She said it was a lot of nonsense and there was nothing wrong with me. I took another overdose and went to the psychiatric unit in ******. The psychiatrist asked what my problem was and I told him I had OCD. He said he was the psychiatrist, who found out what was wrong with people, and it was not for me to tell him what was wrong with me, but for him to tell me. I didn't know why he had asked me. I had told him we had three cats. He asked if I liked to feel their private parts. I had to fill in lots of questionnaires. I was given tablets. They asked if they were helping, but they were having no effect at all. I was discharged.

The psychiatrist said, "You do not have a mental illness; you have a personality disorder." He told me not to meet with anyone who was a patient there, saying, "They have enough to cope with, without you as well." He said I was wasting my life. He told me not to go back there. I saw the file from the psychiatric unit. It said, "Treatment given: Placebo therapy." I had hoped these tablets might help me, but it had just been a trick. Even two Samaritans said I was talking nonsense and made fun of me, as though they thought I'd gone there as a practical joke. My stepfather said, "There's nothing wrong with you. You're a con artist."

I left my mother's house when I was 17. I had been thoroughly battered down and demoralised by ten years of mental and emotional abuse from my stepfather, and stood virtually no chance of being able to live on my own. I was homeless. I lived in three hostels for homeless people, and slept outside. People said I was pretending to have something wrong with me to get somewhere to live. Once I was admitted to the psychiatric unit but was told, "This isn't a hotel," and discharged the next day.

I got a bed-sit. I would go into the casualty department and ask them to help me but would be thrown out. I went to see a psychiatrist in ******, paying him privately the first time. I was not well enough even to get to some of the appointments and they said if I couldn't even "be bothered" to turn up, I wasn't allowed to go again. I remember ringing my mother and begging her to do something, to find me a doctor who would believe me and help me. She just said that such a thing was impossible, and there was nothing she could do.

I had begun to break windows. I kept being arrested and charged with criminal damage. Whenever there was too much noise, or anybody did anything wrong to me I had to put it right by punishing myself. When I was about ten it could be easily done, by something like blinking my eyes. By the time I was 18, if somebody were cruel to me I equalised it by breaking a window. I did not want to break windows. I had to keep all thoughts that I didn't want to do it out of my conscious mind, or it would "find out" and make me break more. It was like arm wrestling. I would be walking down the street, with four windows to go and break. I would suddenly get strong thoughts that I didn't want to do it, and for a while be relieved that I didn't have to. But then it would "take over" and I still had to break four windows, and an extra two for trying to disobey. I would resist and again think of not doing it, and briefly experience an overwhelming feeling of safety and well being. But it would only take over again and I still had to break six windows, and another four for daring to disobey yet again.

The psychiatrist in ****** also said I had a personality disorder. My solicitor said in court that they had approached three hospitals as to whether they would accept me if a court order were made, but that "They have indicated they would not be prepared to do so." The hospitals wouldn't take me so I had to go to prison. I was remanded to ****** for a week. Being in ****** ruined my life. I was irreparably damaged and can never recover from it. My solicitor said in court that the psychiatrist had said he hoped my "experiences" in ****** had "taught me a lesson," and that I had "decided to change my ways." I was sent to a bail hostel in ******.

Probation officers said they thought my breaking windows, and saying there was something wrong with me was "a game." They said I was doing it to annoy my stepfather. They said I was pretending to have something wrong with me to get out of trouble with the police. One announced she had "worked out" the reason why I broke windows. "Your mother had a difficult childhood, about which you feel guilty, and are now acting it out." I had told them all I had an illness but they said I didn't and would rather think up mumbo jumbo like this than admit the obvious.

They got a psychiatrist from ****** to come to the police station. He said, "Now let's get one thing clear before I start. I'm not here because I like you; I'm here because I've been called out from my home and am being paid a great deal of money by the state. Now, why have you been causing all this trouble?" He kept saying, "Your bad behaviour doesn't impress me; I've seen worse." He said, "You have made an incredible mess of your life so far." When I tried to look at what he was writing down he hit me. He said I could go to his hospital, but it was important that I should be punished for my "bad behaviour" and had to go to prison first. He said the staff at his hospital would teach me how to "behave properly." He wrote a report for the court saying I did not have a mental illness. After a terrible week at a Richmond Fellowship hostel in ****** I was sentenced to six months. My mother wrote me a letter in prison saying she thought the doctors were right and I did have a personality disorder. I had an appeal at ****** Crown Court and my sentence was reduced to four months. The judge said I should either "pull myself together" or seek psychiatric help. Seek?!!!

I lived in ****** for three years. I had anorexia for about a year and weighed six stones, two pounds. My cat Tigger disappeared. I lived in ****** for a year. My friend Carl committed suicide. My cat Liffy was killed. I lived in ****** for a year. I rented a nice house there. I saw a psychiatrist once. She said she didn't want to see me again. I went to a hospital in ******. I was told when I was discharged I would be going to a residential home. I took this as a sign that they believed me, and eagerly told my landlord I was moving out. I had all of my things taken to the house of someone I knew, and paid him to temporarily look after them. I told a social worker in ****** that I was moving. He said, "Very well; I am not prepared to stop you," a strange thing to say. I was injected with phenothiazine drugs. They caused horrendous effects. The hospital said it was bad behaviour and discharged me. I said, "I've got nowhere to live." A nurse said, "Well, we're not home finders." At ****** Royal Infirmary I was repeatedly refused procycladine and had to suffer horrific effects for a month. When I went back for my belongings the man had been selling them. He refused to give me back other things, and blackmailed me into giving him more money. He said the social worker had assured him I would not be coming back for them, and that I had gone away to commit suicide. Now I understood his bizarre comment about not being prepared to stop me.

My landlord had sold my house. He didn't have anywhere else in ****** but he had properties in ******, so I had to move there. I could not get any help. I was so demoralised by the drugs nightmare, losing my house and so many of my things being stolen. I could not successfully clean my flat or do shopping. Cooking was completely out of the question. I lived almost entirely on chocolate and milk and regularly went without food for days, either because I'd run out of money or just couldn't sort it out. My diet was extremely high in calories but a small amount of actual food. I piled weight on, but was very often hungry. I lived on a pathetically low amount of money for eight years. When I was 17 it was £25.70 a week and by the time I was 24 had gone up to £28.80. I was not diagnosed so could not claim any disability benefits. I had to pretend to be unemployed. If I hadn't done this I wouldn't have got anything. I had to sign on every fortnight. I could not always do even this, so they would stop my money. There was always something; my Income Support was stopped; my Housing Benefit was stopped; they disconnected the gas; they disconnected the electric; it never ended. Having to deal with it all just meant I had even less mental energy for shopping and cleaning.

Whilst trying to do shopping I would often get into such a state of upset that I would be arrested, usually on a place of safety order under the mental health act. A doctor or psychiatrist would come to the police station, tell the police there was nothing wrong with me and I would be released, only for it all to happen again the next time I went out. The illogical solution of social workers to this was that I should simply not go shopping. Obviously I had to; there was no one to go for or with me. Sometimes I would be admitted to the psychiatric unit but was just treated as a nuisance and soon discharged. They always treated me differently from other patients and sometimes openly told me I had no right to be there. I could not even look after myself but they often asked why I didn't get a job. Psychiatrists, nurses and social workers had no understanding that there was anything wrong with me. I never stopped telling them but they didn't believe me and said it was really my own choice, and my bad behaviour.

I visited and phoned the Social Services many, many times and begged them to help me. But they would not do anything. Their most frequent reasons were that I was an adult or not a child, that I was intelligent or not stupid, that I had never had any help before so I didn't need it now, and that the way I lived was my own choice. When people had an illness that was undiagnosed, their first job should have been to find them a doctor who would diagnose it. Instead they used it against me, always insisting that if doctors said there was nothing wrong with me then there couldn't be. They would not help you unless you were already being helped. So called help lines that I rang were just the same. I went to charities and voluntary organisations to try to get help, but the first thing they did was always to ring the Social Services, then tell me they'd found out I didn't need any help after all. My cat Zaza was killed.

I eventually got a useless social worker who insisted my saying there was something wrong with me was my "belief system," and that he saw it as being part of his job to "challenge that belief system." I thought his job should be to help me with my disability, not try to convince me it didn't exist. The problem was that nobody believed there was anything wrong with me, but he thought the problem was that I believed there was. Like other social workers, he said my wanting somebody to help me meant I wanted to be a child. I wanted to claim Disability Living Allowance. He said it was "only for disabled people." He read the forms and said, "I don't see why you think you can claim this." He said I wasn't entitled to it and refused to fill them in. I didn't know what more he must want.

I saw a psychiatrist who asked how long I'd had OCD, and I told him since my early childhood. He said if I'd had it for that long then it was not an illness but simply "part of" me, and not a matter for psychiatry. I saw a psychiatrist who was supposed to be a specialist in OCD. When I told him I did not have bad behaviour; I had an illness, he said, "If you believe that, then I sincerely believe the best place for you is prison."

"Why?" was all I could say and he said, "To protect other people."

I went all over the country, going to different towns, trying to find a hospital where they would believe me. I would be discharged after a few days, as soon as they got my medical records saying there was nothing wrong with me and I had a personality disorder. They started to call me a hopper, bed hopper or hospital hopper, which I found out meant a person who deliberately tried to be admitted to hospitals when there was nothing wrong with them. All I wanted was to be treated equally to everybody else, so that I could have a proper life. Once I was remanded to a prison near ****** for three days, charged with having criminally damaged some sterile cotton wool at a dentist's surgery.

I was so depressed that I could do hardly anything for myself, but still was told it was all my choice. One doctor refused me anti-depressants on the grounds that these drugs made depression worse. At one time I was down to having only one skirt, one T-shirt and one jacket. They were all ripped and I had tried to mend them with a stapler. My shoes were broken, my glasses were broken and I had no underwear. I had no clothes to change into and could not have a bath anyway as my flat had no water. Both my flat and I smelled very bad. Though I have virtually no sense of smell, still I often felt sick and had headaches because of it. It made other people ostracise me still further, and some shops and other places would not allow me in. At the psychiatric unit I was banned from the out patients department, and doctors had given the instructions "Under no circumstances must this non-mad woman be admitted."

My flat got very dirty and was full of rubbish. The social worker would not accept that I couldn't do it. He asked, "Why do you want to live like this? Is it because you feel you're such a bad person you deserve to live in dirt?" He said he would ring the Environmental Health Department. I told him not to but he did it anyway. Environmental health officers came. They took the rubbish away. They took my bed because it was slightly broken. The social worker had said he would get me another one if I let them take it, but then he just said, "You can do that yourself," which meant I had to sleep downstairs in an armchair for the next year. He said I would get somebody to help me, but I didn't, so a year later I had got into the same state again. The next-door neighbours thought it was a freak show, and I had to keep the curtains permanently closed or they would stand there watching me through the windows. Other neighbours teased and ridiculed me, sprayed air freshener at me, and one of them threw a brick through the window. I remember hearing of Asperger syndrome on the news, but didn't know what it was.

I had been forced to live like a wild animal for four years. I decided to try to protest against my conditions. I bought a chain and some padlocks. At home I practised chaining myself to things. I planned to do this outside, at the offices of people who were supposed to help you, in an attempt to make them do something. I went to ****** ******. I hadn't built up the courage to chain myself to anything so instead protested by taking my clothes off. It was something I had done involuntarily sometimes whilst in distress so didn't have too much embarrassment about doing it on purpose. I hoped I would be seen by an "ordinary" person, who would come forward and intervene in the state's shunning of me. I was arrested and the police took me back home. I went back and did the same thing for the next three days, the last time being charged with threatening conduct. I was protesting against my disability being falsely defined as bad behaviour, but they didn't even understand I was protesting, thinking my protests to be all part of my "bad behaviour."

The environmental health officers came back. This time they exceeded their authority, and as well as throwing the rubbish away, began to throw away all my belongings. The cleaner in charge said to the others, "We haven't got time to sort out what's rubbish and what's her property, so just throw away everything in here." I kept trying to stop them. They said they would give me five minutes to take anything I wanted to keep upstairs, after which they would throw away everything that was left downstairs. They all went outside, except the female environmental health officer who was supposed to let them back in. I frantically tried to do it, grabbing my most important things I could see and rushing upstairs with them so they could not be thrown away. But it was impossible to do in five minutes; it had taken a year to get like that. She was at the door, about to let them in to throw all my belongings away. I took the chain from my handbag and put it round her neck. I wanted to stop them. I held on to her for about five minutes and then she got away. I was arrested on suspicion of attempted murder. The police took me to the police station and left them there to get on with it.

In the police station I seriously considered saying I had tried to kill her, and making myself look as guilty as I could. I wanted to get a life sentence. I didn't want to go to prison, but didn't know what I could do to get out of my nightmare. In the end when I was interviewed I said I was not trying to kill her, but just to protect my property. I was charged with threats to kill and actual bodily harm, and the next day also with false imprisonment.

I was remanded to ****** Prison. The environmental health officers denied throwing any of my things away and said I had just attacked one of them for no reason. My barristers said, "You do not have a case," and made no attempt to defend me. They did not accept anything I said and just believed the prosecution file. I could have gone to a bail hostel but the court said I had to be escorted there, and I couldn't find anybody who would take me. My father refused and when I asked why his wife said, "Because you're not a minor." She said as I was over 18 it was not their legal responsibility.

After seven months I was transferred to a regional secure unit. Three months later I went to court and was given section 37 for twelve months. I had now graduated from personality to psychopathic disorder. The psychiatrist as usual said I didn't have anything wrong with me. On the phone my father accused me of pretending to have something wrong with me to get out of going to prison, and I haven't spoken to him since. All my things that had not been thrown away by the environmental health officers were still upstairs, in my flat. I wanted the hospital social worker to go and get my most important things and either bring them to me, or store them, but she refused. She said it was not part of her job. She said, "I have better things to do with my time than to run errands for people." I rang mental health charities, housing organisations, the local newspaper and anyone I could think of who might help, but no one would. When I rang the office of a local MP, as soon as they realised I was ringing from a psychiatric hospital, they hung up on me. Over a year my flat was broken into, I was told, eleven times. I lost my postcard collection, my photograph albums and almost everything I had because of this social worker. The psychiatrist said it was my fault, because I hadn't "given her enough time." I had been pleading with her to do something for the last year, but she claimed I had first told her about it only three days before.

I heard about Asperger syndrome on Woman's Hour. Since long before I found out I had OCD, I had always known I had a lot in common with autistic people. But I had not thought I was one of them. I thought I should have been, but something had gone wrong when I was born. I thought you were either autistic or you were not. The idea of autism being a spectrum, and that it might be possible to be "mildly" autistic, had never occurred to me. I was discharged when my section ran out. They had no intention of finding me anywhere to live. I was told to go and present myself to the council's homeless person's unit, who would give me the address of a homeless person's hostel. I said I would break the first windows I saw so that I could go back to prison; then I would have somewhere to live. Because I threatened this they then found me a place in a residential home. I saw the report the RSU sent them. It said, "Her diagnosis is one of eccentricity, with personality disorder."

After 17 months I moved to another residential home. I was reasonably all right there for about a year. It was a nice place to live. I had a very nice room, and a cat. I began writing a book about my life. The social worker said I shouldn't bother trying to be diagnosed as having Asperger syndrome, because if doctors had not done it already they would not do it now. Some of the other residents had constant bad behaviour, but because they were diagnosed as having something wrong with them they got away with it, whether it was due to a mental illness or not. Eventually, after 27 months I suffered a meltdown, which was entirely provoked by the staff, and I was evicted. I was in a psychiatric unit. After two months I couldn't stand their indifference there anymore and left. The only reason I'd hung on so long was that I was told I was waiting for an appointment with an Asperger syndrome doctor. Later, whilst at the night shelter I asked a social worker if it had come yet and was told the psychiatrist "didn't think it was appropriate" and had cancelled it ages ago.

I got a boyfriend. I was 33 and had never had one before. I had never believed anything like this could happen to me. He was the nicest person I had ever met. I really felt that now I had met this wonderful man, most of my problems were behind me and I would have a much better life. We got a flat together. I was the happiest I had ever been. I was mugged by two men. They stole my handbag. I had my manuscript in it. I was in a lot of distress and instead of supporting me he threw me out and made me homeless. I couldn't do anything about it. I had left it all to him and was not on the tenancy agreement of my own flat. I had never imagined he could be so cruel. I was in the night shelter again. He moved his ex-wife into our flat. I had missed two medical appointments and the DSS stopped my money. They didn't start it again for four months, and they refused to give me the arrears. I ended up having to sleep outside for a few weeks, on my birthday and at Christmas. He threw his ex-wife out.

I was let back in. By now I had rented a room nearby. All of my things had disappeared and he just said he had no idea what had happened to them. He asked to marry me. I still loved him despite his cruelty and said yes. He gave me a ring. He took me to his hometown and introduced me to his friends and relations. We decided to move there after we were married. I hoped he had got his ex-wife out of his system. I tried to ignore all the awful things he had done to me, and looked forward to our new life in a new town. A few weeks later he came home with one of his ex-girlfriends. She said she was moving into our flat. She said she was going to marry him and demanded I give her my ring. Again he threw me out, and kept all my things. I wouldn't give him my ring so he told everybody I'd stolen it, then sent his friend to threaten me. (I am now aware that he has narcissistic personality disorder, is a pathological liar and a paedophile).

I moved to a nice, spacious flat on the same street, and was as fine there as I could be, in my ludicrous situation. I got a computer, and the Internet. A thief stole many of my letters, so I had to rent a post office box. A social worker had tried, on and off for years to get me referred to an AS doctor, but the psychiatrists he asked wouldn't do it, so he referred me himself. I wrote to doctors who specialise in Asperger syndrome, only to find they would not even see anyone without meeting their parents. This is absurd and would defeat the object. There is an automatic assumption that everyone has supportive parents. Some places said they would see me without imposing this unfair and impossible condition on me, but again, I had to be referred, which was also not possible. As doctors didn't believe I had AS, they wouldn't do it.

The landlord put the house up for sale in an auction. It was bought by a property developer, who sent letters to all of the tenants saying they were evicted, and giving a deadline by which to leave. After much uncertainty I managed to move into a very small flat across the road. After four years of distress caused by the person who stole and read my letters, I finally found out who they were. It was the last person I'd expected it to be; a woman who I'd thought was nice and who, for all that time, had been pretending to be my friend. I realised she was also the one who had twice broken my door lock.

Over the years I have seen about 70 psychiatrists, most on just one occasion, all of them happy to say I have a personality disorder. I needed someone to help me, at least with shopping and cleaning, but I couldn't get anything. I have never had a job. I should have had disability benefits but was denied them for years. I get some now, but still half the amount I am legally entitled to. I have been telling doctors that I have OCD and depression for 26 years, and they have never believed this, let alone Asperger syndrome which I didn't know I had until I was 29.

That I have AS, OCD and depression is as obvious to me as my being human, female and fat. For some reason what is blindingly obvious cannot be seen by doctors, who prefer to misdiagnose me as having a personality disorder and disown me. I have always been called an attention seeker, and accused of trying to fool them. I have never managed to make anyone realise that I simply am how I am. It is not my choice or something I can do anything about. I have a disability. I am not doing it. I have never understood why doctors help other people and not me. I frequently wonder, "What's so good about everybody else?" I have had a lot of my life stolen.

I think if I'd had different parents it would have been obvious to them that there was something wrong with me, and they would have sorted it out. Had competent doctors seen me when I was two years old, I would surely have been diagnosed as autistic. My mother and stepfather always treated me as though I were doing something wrong. When doctors said there was nothing wrong with me my mother just accepted it. I could have been treated differently and had an ordinary life. Even after being brought up so badly by my stepfather, it could have been all right. Sending me to prison when I was 18 was too much to do to me. After this I could never have a normal life.

Eventually I heard from the AS doctor in ******, who was just as patronising and offensive as any other psychiatrist. He told me I had "bad behaviour," and made it very clear that even if he were to diagnose me as having AS, I would still be diagnosed as having a personality/ psychopathic disorder. I would have thought it obvious that simply being diagnosed as having AS is not enough; I also have to be "undiagnosed" as a psychopath. Doctors must admit it was my autism that they falsely diagnosed as personality disorder in the first place, and that I do not have a personality disorder. For them to admit I am autistic, but still think of me as a psychopath, and therefore be free to continue their neglect and abuse of me, would be pointless.

I have written this biography. I've sent it out to quite a few people, but rarely get any response. I sent it to a very well known person who is widely regarded as one of the world's leading experts in autism. As though I needed a further kick in the guts, they replied saying that doctors "have the relevant knowledge" and therefore, when they say I am a psychopath, I am "getting the right professional advice."

With the end of 2004 came a terrible double blow, things I had hoped I would not have to face for many more years. My two "heroes," ****** ****** and John Peel, died within weeks of each other. For over 20 years John Peel, through his radio programme, provided me with virtually the only consistency in my life. ****** ****** was my beacon of logic and morality, in a world of illogic and moral insanity.

I am now 41. I have always been told, by doctors and everyone else that there is nothing wrong with me, and that I have bad behaviour, personality and psychopathic disorder. Is four decades of this not enough? I know they will be quite content to leave me undiagnosed, and steal the rest of my life.

I moved to a bungalow, in my hometown of ******. I am now extremely overweight and can't walk very far. I have given up on the idea of being diagnosed. I have been refused help all my life on the grounds of being undiagnosed but, after 28 years of trying, have come to realise that it has all been a lie; that even if you are diagnosed, nothing happens, no one does anything and you are still just left to rot.