Lizzie is the 16-year-old daughter of a friend. Recently, when I asked how things were going for her, she nonchalantly replied: “Oh, I have OCD [obsessive-compulsive disorder] and my boyfriend’s on the spectrum.”

I’ve known Lizzie for years. Yes, she’s neat, but OCD? I don’t think so. What struck me most, however, was not what she said, but the way she said it – as if she were announcing that she’d won a prize. Lizzie wears her diagnosis as a badge of honour. That can’t be a good thing.