Why I Know Who I Am
I was always a quiet kid. I’m still quiet now, an adult, but as a child I really was quiet. The kind of quiet that leads the less tactful among us to ask why doesn’t she speak, or cast a suspicious eye as though someone who isn’t talking must be plotting the end of civilisation. Having an overbearing mother didn’t help my situation, as she chose to be my voice whether I liked it or not. Sure, I didn’t have to speak when I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t speak my truth, either. No one had any chance of knowing who I really was unless they had the patience to strike up a friendship with shy me. As far as my mother was concerned, the more I grew, the less room there was for the both of us.
Primary school went well for me — for the most part at least — but secondary school presented a whole other challenge. The increased size of it and the workload was one thing, but the real problem was the other kids. My past experiences of friendship had been having one female best friend and otherwise hanging around playing basketball with the boys. Being in a school full of girls was a culture shock at best, and a lion’s den at worst. It seemed that 11-year-old girls became vicious creatures now that they felt all grown up. On my first day, having overheard nastiness aimed towards a girl who had spent the day trying to forge a connection with an already established pairing, I resolved to keep to myself. About a week in, a girl claimed to “hate” me purely because we had the same name. I had unwittingly gained an enemy, and along with her, her army.
I was eventually invited into a friendship group that had formed, but by 14 I was being bullied relentlessly by the girls who had always picked on me and was completely isolated. As a result of trauma at home and being so scared of accidentally revealing something after realising I was bisexual, I retreated entirely, fearful of rejection even from friends, and would go days at a time without speaking a single word. All of my time spent alone left me helplessly lonely. The one thing that I had always leant on was writing — when I was the weirdo, I would write down my observations of how strange some social conventions were, always keeping my humour. At this time in my life, my diary became my sanctuary in which I wrote about all the things that could have never left my mouth. I accepted my sexuality (albeit without letting anyone know), and accepted myself. Among all the teenage bullshit, I had never been a follower, and that wasn’t about to change.
The beginning of showing the world who I am started with my mental breakdown. I dropped out of school halfway through sixth form after months of debilitating anxiety and depression, and hearing voices. The psychiatrist I saw put me on antidepressants, but also provided me with something I hadn’t known I needed. She said she thought I was autistic. In the meantime, before I could go through the diagnostic process, I started college, and in this more relaxed environment, my confidence soared and, with some relapses, my mental health improved.
My first two years at college were spent studying Health and Social Care. In my placements I put as much love as possible into caring for whoever I was supporting at the time. I got to know elderly people and young children alike, and they got to know the girl behind the piercings and tattoos. The feedback from my supervisors was always the same, though: too quiet. I felt bitter. I had improved so much, and what did being quiet matter if I was making a positive difference in people’s lives? Still, I completed the course, and went on to achieve my A Levels.
By the time I started university, the situation with my mother had long reached crisis point. I had acknowledged her emotional abuse of me for years, but cutting her out didn’t seem to be an option — she was my mother. One of my friends asked me why I didn’t just stop speaking to her as if that was easy, though I knew she was right that I shouldn’t tolerate what she put me through. The nail in the coffin came when she tried to manipulate me into committing fraud — something she had already been charged for. As hard as it was to go into an independent life with no familial support, I had my fiancée (now my wife), and I had my integrity.
Unfortunately, university proved too much for me. The university I had chosen was difficult to navigate (no good for a directionally challenged person such as myself), having experienced illness early on I missed out on the crucial time for making friends, and I didn’t like the degree I was doing. At this time, I finally got my autism diagnosis. Having that confirmation, everything started to make sense for me. Why I struggled to connect to people, why I never understood small talk. Struggling with tying my laces and anything else that involved fine motor skills. I wasn’t cursed, just different. Now I could really get to know myself.
I am now at a new university and doing something I love — writing! In the years between I dealt with the fallout of separating from my family, struggled with chronic illness, got back in contact with my uncle who was also victim to other members of my family, and got married. All of the things I have experienced and everyone I have known has shaped how I see things, but I don’t allow them to change me. Despite the ups and downs and the people who come and go, there’s no doubting my identity. All other labels aside, I am a survivor. I know who I am.
