Self-Diagnosis 101

 I’ve been diagnosed with lots of things over the years.

Simple things like chest infections, type A flu or covid; gastritis, asthma or sinusitis. More complex conditions too – which ended up bringing a premature end to my teaching career – like advancing osteoarthritis, fibromyalgia, osteoporosis: things that are quite literally a pain to live with. I’ve been diagnosed with other things as well. Maybe one day I’ll write about that. 

They say that talking to a good friend can be better than therapy. When I talk to close friends and family about life, I find it easier to understand what I really think. And so I’ve self-diagnosed, today, like this.

I’m diagnosing myself with being me.

The person who loves spending time in the company of like-minded people, but is very shy, very socially awkward. Who gets anxious about time with others, despite knowing for certain in advance that it’ll be enjoyable. 

The person who’s an absolute bookworm, but who’s too anxious to join a book club, and who’d probably prefer to spend the time alone anyhow – curled up with a book in the seat on the sofa by the upstairs gable window, that she’s designated as her ‘reading perch’. 

The person who was obsessively interested in music throughout her younger years, but barely ever listens to it now; who’s rediscovering piano playing in retirement as a way of keeping very painful hands moving fairly fluently. 

The person who loves living in a busy, popular seaside town, but never loves it as much as when the second-homers and holidaymakers go back home during term-time weekdays. Who’ll enjoy the summer sunshine just as much as everybody else, but who marvels, from behind layers of hoodie, coat, scarf and beanie, at the wonder of a storm-filled sky over a wind-lashed sea across an almost empty beach.

The person who greatly enjoys it when she goes out to see a play, a ballet, a show, a concert or a film – but really prefers staying in.

The person who was so frightened about joining an exercise class that she considered faking an injury- then made herself go, loved every minute, and could barely move for three days afterwards.  Who’s been psyching herself up all week for another class today.

The person who carried out hundreds of social interactions every day in a busy career as a teacher.  For 32 years. Who retired early only because she had no choice, and who felt very sad as she watched the schools go back as term began again this month, one year on from leaving. The deeply unassertive person who ran a busy subject department for 20 years. The person who found it hard to take herself as seriously as she knew she was meant to do. Who made jokes about the restaurant having a very strict dress code, during those seemingly endless lunch duties at the Canteen door.

The person who’s supposedly intelligent: who went to the best university in the UK, according to recent rankings. Who loves watching Neighbours at lunchtime, just like she did when she was at that university, but who’ll also get enraged at Newsnight or entranced by something in French on Netflix. Who can be deeply silly, and who still makes stupid mistakes.  Who approaches daily word game challenges with forensic precision and an absolute air of competition. Who’ll read Shakespeare or Sally Rooney, James Joyce or Marian Keyes, Ernest Hemingway or Elin Hilderbrand, and more.  Much more. The person who still loves study, and still might return to it.

The person who took her Paddington Bear to her First Communion, her elderly bear Paddy to university and on her year abroad, and who still takes her favourite Monkey on holiday. The person who supplied her beloved, elderly Dad with cuddly, furry companions during the final years of his life – just like he did for her during the first years of hers.

The person who’ll never quite get over missing her Mum and Dad as much as she does, even though caring for them was sometimes onerous and occasionally unpleasant. The person who’d do everything again, and more, if only she had the chance.

The person who often takes the same photos on the same walks every day, because no two days look the same, and the sky over the sea is always changing. The creature of habit who likes to receive a surprise in the post or for her birthday. Even though she doesn’t like growing older, and doesn’t like celebrating her birthday. The person who was delighted when they made a gluten-free version of Colin The Caterpillar, but then saw the calorie count of every slice. The person who menu-plans, calorie-counts, and looks at ingredient lists with the despair born of the long list of intolerances.

The person who isn’t sure what to believe about life anymore. The person who has never placed so much value on holding on to those few good people who just make life better. The person who values honesty and being genuine above almost any other attribute. The person who steps into the gutter while the oncoming walkers continue four abreast. The person who is still learning.

If all of this reads to anyone as a diagnosis that could be written on a medical record of some sort, then please be kind about that. I’m diagnosing myself merely with being me. Someone who isn’t nearly good enough at all, but who’s doing the best that she can.

And that’s as well as I can manage that today.