Comment: Highly recommended folks read this one...  Neurodiversity? No, vaccine injury...
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MIRI'S MASSIVE MISSIVES
One of my earliest experiences of realising that the world, and people, 
didn’t function quite as I’d been taught they did came - astonishingly 
enough - courtesy of school. Not via a lesson or teacher, of course, but
 rather, through one of my friends. 
I had a friend, we’ll call her Catherine, who, at the age of sixteen,
 was widely considered to have it all. She was extremely clever (and top
 of the class for everything), pretty, slim, and, for a swot, reasonably
 popular - she wasn’t in with the token Mean Girls (she was too nice for
 them), but she had two really close friends, Shauna and Natalie, who 
she did everything with. She even had neat handwriting and an 
immaculately tidy room. She might easily have been hated if she wasn’t 
so nice - but she was, and so everyone generally liked her.
She 
also had a very nice family: married parents who’d been together since 
school and got along well together, a younger brother she was close to, 
and nearby grandparents, aunts and uncles, and cousins.
You’d 
imagine, then, that Catherine was having quite a pleasant experience 
growing up, and I had assumed that she was, until one day after history 
class, she grabbed my arm and hissed in a low whisper:
“Will you walk to maths with me?”
“But I’m not in your maths class,” I said, puzzled. “You know I can’t count and I’m in with the remedials.”
“I know,” she said. “But can you just walk with me to mine anyway? You’ll still be able to get to yours on time.”
Thinking
 she must have some vitally important gossip or something to share with 
me, I accompanied her, but was left none the wiser when we got to her 
classroom and no such gossip had been divulged.
A few weeks later, the same thing happened again: after history, Catherine asked me to walk with her to maths.
I
 couldn’t understand it, and tried to think if there was anything 
linking these two events. The only thing I could think of was that on 
both occasions, our mutual friend Shauna - who was in Catherine’s maths 
class - hadn’t been in for history. Shauna had recently discovered the 
joys of alcopops, and older boys who could drive, and so was frequently 
MIA for morning classes.
So, eventually, I questioned Catherine 
about this, and was absolutely astonished when she shamefacedly admitted
 she needed me to walk with her from history to maths when Shauna wasn’t
 there, as she was too anxious to walk there on her own. She said she 
never walked to class alone and had structured her timetable 
specifically in order to make sure there was always a “crossover friend”
 to walk between classes with.
“But... but...” I stuttered, trying
 to get my head around how perfect, poised Catherine could be too scared
 to walk down a corridor on her own. “You walk to school on your own.”
“I know,” she said, eyes cast downwards in shame. “I’ve been stealing
 my mum’s gin and swigging it before I leave the house so I don’t get 
too anxious on the way.”
Believe me when I say if there was anyone
 in my year at school you would predict might start drinking hard liquor
 first thing in the morning, it was not Catherine. Shauna, maybe 
(Shauna, definitely, in later years, as it turned out) but not 
Catherine.
I couldn’t understand it.
One would normally 
associate that level of crippling anxiety and burgeoning alcoholism with
 a severely damaged and traumatised person, which Catherine was not. 
Although she did well at school, that wasn’t because of pressure from 
her parents, who hadn’t been particularly academic themselves and would 
have supported her to leave school at 16 had she wanted to, like they 
did. She had a good family, nice friends, a future full of potential - 
what was she so anxious about?
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