Summary of experiences of education

Early years (pre-diagnosis)

Growing up in the early 1970s, I was a learner who thrived at junior school, well-behaved and engaged. Never top of the class but above average in many areas. I don't recall much of the feedback, I never attended any parent's evening, and school reports were for adults to read, not children. I felt happy, though; I. enjoyed my time in school even though elements of it perplexed me greatly. I had no idea how the other kids told each other apart. I knew I was different because I could not do that. I also knew that being different was bad, and I had to learn to hide it.

Senior school (pre-diagnosis)

I was excited to begin, excited about the blazer, and excited about all the new things to learn. I was soon disappointed. The blazer was of a material I couldn't bear to touch. The teachers were terrifying, not nurturing. I was crammed into a classroom with 30 other kids I couldn't recognise, and had to navigate crowded, noisy corridors to get between classes. Everything became about going through the process of arriving at the right classroom, sitting quietly at the right desk, getting the right books out, looking in the right direction. Actual learning seemed to be a secondary requirement to these things.

Bullied and often friendless, I sank educationally and emotionally and was soon demoted from the 'top sets' I had been assigned to. As I understood it, my failure to thrive was entirely my own fault. I had one refuge, the library, where I was allowed to escape the terrifying chaos of the playground at lunchtime and instead spend my time sorting and organising books. Outside of doing that, nothing I ever did, academically, in sports or socially, was ever good enough. I tried, I tried to be good, but I could never achieve it. In the end, I simply sank into obscurity, doing enough to remain reasonably unnoticed yet somehow still the focus of attention for bullies and those teachers who seemed to like to have someone to humiliate.

My hopes of attending University were dashed at the end of my second year of 6th Form when I was mortified to find myself asked to leave. I had not improved enough. My grades would be poor, and this would reflect badly on the school. I had failed school.

At the time, I accepted what I was told. It was my fault. I was too lazy to be bothered to learn.

Further Education (pre diagnosis)

A year after leaving school and working as a catering assistant full-time, I decided to try again. I attended a local college. Here, again, I found myself floundering. Intellectually capable of following the programme I lack the skills to study effectively. I did achieve two A levels, but only with a C and a D grade. Less than I had hoped but enough to get me into nursing school.

My experiences of nurse training will be a topic of a future post; ultimately, it was an extension of my senior school and A-level experiences. I didn't fit in; I clearly had the aptitude, and I simply didn't seem to be able to produce academic work at a high standard. It was good enough, often only barely. Again, my failure was entirely my own fault. I passed, and although I still had academic ambitions, I left them behind me. There was something about me that meant I was 'wrong' and unable to succeed academically.

Some 20 years later, I found myself on a short post-grad course with a course director who had struggled with education herself due to dyslexia. She pulled me to one side and advised me to consider taking an MSc in Medical Anthropology. Having decided that the worst that would happen would be that I might fail, and I already knew how to do that, I applied for the two-year part-time course. During the first year I realised that there was potential for me to manage not to fail. My academic work wasn't perfect; I struggled with the self-directed learning elements, becoming too focused on single areas, but the topic was fascinating, and my grades weren't wholly reliant on an ability to write to meet unknown guidelines. Developing my own ideas was suddenly important and valued. The style of teaching, the smaller classes and the quieter environment all suited me.

Midway through my course, and not associated with it, I was diagnosed as Autistic, and the world changed.

Further Education (post-diagnosis)

Not quite knowing what I should do with my new diagnosis or even if I should do anything, I presented myself to the Student Wellbeing office to ask. I thought that if they had a record of the diagnosis, then it might be helpful if I made one of my regular catastrophic social errors. I didn't expect what I got. I was offered learning support for the first time; someone showed me how to organise my time and my tasks, and they ensured that I fully understood the expectations of me in assignments. My work was checked, and I was guided in those areas where I had misunderstood or deviated from expectations. Much to my disgust at the time, I was given electronic reading software (I'd been reading fluently since pre-school) and discovered that I was much more able to extract information from electronic text using it. I was given access to a small and quiet room to one side of the large and noisy library. My grades and my confidence shot up.

I was no longer 'wrong'. Or lazy. Or weird. Or stupid. Or pedantic. Or difficult. Or rude. I was a student.

I completed the program, achieved a merit and regained a passion for learning.

Currently, at almost 50 years old, I am completing my PGCE. I still struggle in some areas but I have the support that allows me equity with my peers. Elements will always be more challenging for me than for others,, but now, rather than being diminished by them, I allow them to inform my learning and my work.

Reading through blogs and studies, I find that my experience was far from unusual, particularly for girls who are often undiagnosed. I no longer feel that I am innately ineducable; now I feel that I am not only educable, I am potentially capable of educating others.