Quietly Confident
(Content Warning: Shame, School Trauma, Anxiety)
I was assessed by a psychologist when I was a kid in my first year of secondary school. I was deeply unhappy. Anxious, not eating, using every excuse under the sun to not have to go to school. The daily onslaught of overwhelming sensory input and social confusion made me want to crawl into my uniform jumper like a turtle going back into its shell, and make myself as small as humanly possible.
I didn’t want to touch anything at that school. Tables dirtied with the pungent dust of cheese and onion crisps. Fingernail clippings (yes, really). The stink of cigarette smoke from some of my classmates when they’d come in after lunch break. I used to pull my sleeves down over my hands, ripping holes in each sleeve so my thumbs could fit through, and I could hold a pencil or a pen without having to actually touch anything around me with my bare skin. I was very germ phobic as a child, even as far as not wanting to sit in a chair if there was even the tiniest crumb or spec of dirt on it.
It came to a point where I started seeing the school counsellor, a woman in her late fifties who had an unusual smell I couldn’t place. Sort of like tea tree oil mixed with something savoury - (I really don’t know why that’s important to what I’m writing here but it stands out for some reason. I remember being really distracted by it at the time). I was mostly mute during school hours, and my face would flush bright red with embarrassment if anyone tried to talk to me. My anxiety was at an all time high and I was struggling, so I used to go and talk with her sometimes.
It was going well for a while, until she ended up supervising our class one day. It was one of those rooms where we all sat around a large table in the centre of the room, and there were a few computers lined up against the wall, facing outward. She was working away on one of the computers, with her back to us, typing something up. It was only when a few of my classmates started to whisper and look over at me that I realised she was writing up what I now know to be a case study, with me as the subject, and pretty much everyone in the class could see what she was typing.
She was writing about everything. My anxiety, my mutism, my germ phobia, and a few other sensitive things I had disclosed to her in confidence. I felt absolutely mortified and humiliated. I don’t even think she was really aware that everyone could see what she was typing, or that they’d even care to look. Maybe it never crossed her mind. But it felt like such a huge betrayal of trust, especially seeing as I was mostly mute at this time and it took a lot for me to even open up and speak to her at all.
In retrospect, I think something shifted in me after that incident. I had felt so angry about being put in that position by someone who, as an adult, an authority figure, and a counsellor no less, really should’ve known better. But I also felt this overwhelming sense of shame, and put a lot of the onus on myself. I felt responsible, because I had told her all those sensitive things about myself, I was the one who had anxiety and struggled with these things in the first place, so in a way I believed it was somewhat my own fault. And that if I had been stronger, if I hadn’t been so timid and shy, then I wouldn’t have been put in that position of several of my classmates being able to read my deepest insecurities as they were being typed up on a screen. A few of my classmates were actually really kind to me at that time, I think they felt bad for me. But I still felt that maybe if I had put on an act sooner, if I had tried to just ‘get on with it’, maybe it wouldn’t have happened. The bitter irony that while I was trying so desperately to be invisible and to avoid attention, my confiding this in someone resulted in the opposite happening.
I don’t quite remember what happened after that or if I ever received any sort of apology from the counsellor, but I do know that my mother went in and let rip at the school principal. As you can imagine, she was absolutely furious. My mum was always fighting to advocate for me, even though she didn’t know I was autistic, she knew I was different, and I honestly don’t know what I would’ve done without her in my corner.
A few months after that incident, a psychologist came to the school to ‘observe’ me. I don’t actually remember a lot about her. But I do remember that by that time, I had started to make a conscious effort to appear as though I was coping just fine. I tried to pretend she wasn’t there, to ignore her. Act as though I didn’t care. Looking back, I can see this is where I really started masking, out of shame, out of guilt and embarrassment for causing a fuss, out of desperation and realising that I wasn’t going to be able to survive my school years unless I adapted and changed myself somehow. The result and the reality of this was that I dissociated, and created a wall around myself. Mirrored those around me, and deferred to other people to guide me and show me how to behave, how to act in order not to arouse suspicion that I was still struggling underneath the brave face.
And so, my mum told me that the results from the psychologists’ assessment came in.
“Your daughter is…quietly confident”.
Quietly. Confident.
To this day, I still have no real idea what that means.
Taking into account that this was at a time when most people thought ‘Rain Man’ when they heard the word autism. Blindingly obvious now, looking back, but back then, I’ve often wondered if maybe ‘quietly confident’ was another way of saying ‘she’s learned how to successfully mask and hide her struggles, at least during school hours’.
Writing about all this is a form of therapy for me, and I know what I’m writing here is a very vulnerable thing to share, but I’ve spent most of my life trying to protect my vulnerability. Seeing my sensitive nature as a flaw somehow, something I had to hide or ‘toughen up’ out of in order to navigate through the social jungle that is our society. But as I’m getting older, I'm finding strength and wisdom in the places within me that I had tried for so long to bury. I’m finding courage where before I was blinded by fear.
I would love to be able to go back to my younger self and put my arms around her and share with her all I’ve learned. Reassure her, and tell her that she didn’t need to feel ashamed. That it wasn’t her fault. That the school environment she was in was not built with someone like her in mind. Or anyone who feels, thinks and experiences the world a little differently. That it wasn’t her that was flawed, but the system. That adults can be wrong, and make mistakes, and sometimes don’t quite grasp the impact or the consequences of their actions. If I could be her counsellor, I would be the trusted confidant she needed at that time, and I would hold her secrets close to my heart.
Vulnerability sounds like truth and feels like courage. Truth and courage aren’t always comfortable, but they’re never weakness. - Brené Brown
Thank you for sharing this. I when a school experience shifted something in me also.
This resonated deeply. So glad I found your page :)