It is conventional to start at the beginning of things, but my mental illness refused to play by the rules, dragging its claws through my mind when I least expected it. Therefore, neither will I.
Psycho. Crazy. Freak. These are the words that I hurled at myself internally when I received my initial diagnosis of an acute and transient psychotic disorder in January 2018. Externally: ‘I’m not mentally ill,’ I fumed. My psychiatrist did not seem the slightest bit surprised by my reaction, and I remember he looked at me kindly. My parents later revealed that he had told them: ‘This is when the hardest work begins for her.’
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And I thought I knew what it meant to work hard.
June 30th 2017. My graduation. Apprehensively, I stood in First Court of my college as the Praelector (a woman with a drill sergeant’s posture and the exaggerated theatrical intonations of a Punch and Judy puppeteer) ran through the procedures to be followed in the Senate House later that afternoon. Walk up to the Master when your name is called, kneel on the cushion, fold your hands in prayer, listen to a few words in Latin, step back, bow, and walk out. Under no circumstances is anyone in the audience to talk or – God forbid – whoop or cheer. A modest round of applause is all that is permitted. I fiddled with my hood, readjusting the pin that held it securely to my shirt, visions of tripping up on the cushion and crashing headfirst before the Master’s feet to snickers of laughter swirling through my mind.
I barely recognised anyone around me – the product of having holed myself up in my room during Final Year, working feverishly until 2am most nights with the singular aim of getting a First Class Law degree in mind. I had embarked upon a year abroad to France the year before. My few close friends therefore belonged to other colleges and we weren’t able to graduate together. I could have used the reassurance of having my best friend exchanging glances with me or muttering something about the Praelector’s pomposity in French under his breath.
But I felt utterly alone in that courtyard on one of the most important days of my life. I wore a school shirt (for 14-15 year olds) that I had panic-bought from M&S the day before when I realised everyone had left their graduation shopping to the last minute. The oppressive heat, the starchy material of the fabric and the lack of familiarity led to knots of anxiety twinging in my stomach.
Yet – I had made it. At the age of 22, I had fully realised a dream I had previously thought impossible: to graduate from Cambridge with a First Class Law Degree. If success is defined as the achievement of aims, I had no doubt succeeded academically. Moreover, I had emerged from university with strong friendships – albeit with a handful of individuals – but friendships I treasured. I had a long-term boyfriend, snapping photos and smiling at me as he walked alongside our group of graduands completing the fifteen-minute procession to the Senate House. I was extremely fortunate to have a supportive family – Mum, Dad, and my younger brother had completed the one-hour drive from London to Cambridge extra early that morning so as to get the best seats in the house – who I knew were incredibly proud of me. I seemed, on the surface, to have everything.
If you had told me then that fast-forward three short months and I would be sectioned in the mental health unit of a state hospital, hallucinating so feverishly that at times I couldn’t get out of bed, the irony is that I would have called you mad.
THE BORDERLINE STORIES 