Today, I find myself staring at my blank computer screen, the brilliant white of a draft blog post staring blatantly back at me. And I feel intimidated. What I am looking at doesn’t seem to be a computer screen anymore, it’s taken on it’s own lease of life, masquerading as the many faces of people I dearly wish will never find this indescribably small corner of the internet that I inhabit. All of these faces leer at me, telling me that my writing isn’t good enough, that everything I say is cliched and that I should be embarrassed to spend my time pouring out these immature words. So, I feel afraid to write and my hands keep hovering hesitantly over my keyboard, frozen in a panic about whether or not they can trust my mind to give them good enough words to type out.

I’ll be honest, most of these faces take the appearance of people who have taught me over the years. People who have seemed to me to be impossibly clever, even scarily so as I remember their Oxbridge certificates taking pride of place on their walls, almost as if to prove my own inadequacy to me. Their faces contort into amused sneers in my mind’s eye as they look at me with the knowledge that what I write is absolute drivel that could never impress anyone. The way they look at me feels paralysing.

I don’t whether the force of their intimidation in my head is so strong because I got my first semester University results on Friday. The crude grading of my supposed intelligence and understanding has always felt frightening to me, as if the sum of my parts is presented on that results page in a disappointingly low percentage which classifies me as simply average. Whatever the mark, results are always a distinct bash to my confidence because it reminds me of how my future is in the hands of other people who are undoubtedly intellectually superior to me and probably marked my papers thinking how basic my work was. The most I can do is stick a figurative middle finger up at these pretend critiques which my mind has twisted out of the faint shadows of people I either used to know or barely know at all and continue to write in spite of the faces which drift across my consciousness.


At University it seems that I am a category. A box to fill. A task to tick off the list. This is usually because I present people with a problem; I’m not straightforward or easy to understand or communicate with and I come with a whole host of educational adjustments saddled around my neck. Therefore, professors approach me with an air of caution, confusion and curiosity.

This is because my teachers know about my mental illnesses before they even meet me. Along with my picture on their module database, they are invited to read about my history of problems within the education system and the issues which my poor mental health present for me. They know the workings of my brain in quite a bit of detail before they even see me in real life and experience me as a person rather than just a list of clinical judgements.

Frankly, I do not know how to feel about this situation. I feel awkward upon meeting lecturers and professors for the first time as I know that they will have seen the notes which have been made about me from various different assessments and meetings – it is like they have been let in on one of my secrets. Whilst this is helpful because they are aware of my situation which may provide context for my detached and anxious behaviour, I also feel vulnerable when I first meet them. I know that they have the knowledge to see me in a particular light which frightens me as there are no ways that I can hide the ugly complexity of my character, it is all laid out there in the open with a complete stranger.