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For the last few months there has been some quiet activity going on in the background of our lives here: a hall booked, a band engaged, and invitations sent out. Last weekend it finally happened: our family had a party.

We are not the kind of people who have a lot of parties. We’re quiet, and even before Julie got sick we would rather have had teeth pulled than arrange a big event. But when Julie got sick, we became very very unsociable indeed. We just didn’t have the time or the energy to talk to people, or even begin to explain what was happening to us, or how terrible we felt about it. We could scarcely get to work, or look after ourselves, let alone share a cup of coffee or send a Christmas card. It was only very imaginative and very determined friends that managed to keep in touch.

It’s been five long years and for the last couple of years we’ve gradually started to dig ourselves out of our shell. We lost some friends during the bad years, but adversity meant that we made some new ones that have become much dearer to us. We’ve recognised how vital friendships are, and that different friendships have brought us different things, the value of which is not always obvious at first. Sure some people shared our grief and pain, but we’ve also learnt to appreciate the people who didn’t really get it, but still stopped to talk to us, and offered help. We’ve got better at talking, and better (and bolder) at talking specifically about mental illness. We’ve also learnt to incorporate a near-permanent state of crisis into our life and carry on regardless.

This year, I decided I wanted to have a party to celebrate everything we have achieved, and to mark the fact that we have survived (so far) and that we do have such good friends. At one point, feeling very unwell and forced to have an operation, I almost called it off, but I’m so glad I didn’t.

It was a fantastic party: everybody was on good form, the food was great (not my cooking, but caterers!), the music was brilliant. People came from great distances, everyone stayed until midnight, people brought out guitars and jammed with the band, teenagers fell in love. The next day we just sat around and dissected it endlessly, reliving the funny moments and the nice moments, while other people sent us dozens of emails to say what a good time they’d had.

It was a brilliant night – a night to remember. Now when I look back on these years I won’t just be remembering the rubbish bits, I’ll be able to say, “Do you remember when we had that party?”. And we did it all by ourselves.

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When Julie started at sixth form, the very first thing the Maths department did was sit down the whole cohort of Maths students and give them an exam. They wanted to sort out who needed what help to get through the A level. Actually, I think that’s a very good idea: it focuses resources where they’re needed, and makes sure the students understand where they need to put in the extra work. It’s surely the opposite of one-size-fits-all.

But of course it all depends how you handle the kids who don’t do very well in your test. Can you resist the temptation to imply that they are defective? That, but for them, one size really would fit all?

On the basis of her mark in this exam, Julie was duly assigned to the remedial group, needing extra tuition, and given extra homework to complete. A letter was sent home explaining this and making it quite clear that if she didn’t pull her socks up and do better by the end of the first half-term, she might not be sitting her A level in Maths at all. It was one of those “must”, “should not” and “insist” type letters. The message was not “you have a problem and we can help”; the message was unequivocally “you have a problem and you are to blame”. The same message was given to the students in a meeting. Sheep and goats had been sorted, and they were the goats.

Julie was distraught. She had only just started sixth form, and she was struggling to negotiate the crowded classrooms and corridors of the school, after years of having to be taught in hospital, at home or in a separate unit. She was still ill, still heavily medicated, and still needing twelve hours sleep a night. She had done fairly well in Maths at previous levels, but she has no confidence at all. With her time severely curtailed by her need for sleep, the extra Maths classes ate into time needed for her other subjects, and it was impossible to see how she could meet these demands for extra homework. But without Maths at A level, she could say goodbye to her modest dreams of taking a technical degree.

I got in touch with the Maths teacher, and suggested that she give Julie a break. I explained the circumstances, and that testing Julie straight away was likely to give spurious results. But I was talking to a brick wall: it was obvious she had no real idea of the problems Julie had to overcome just to get to school at all. In the end, I told her that I would monitor Julie’s workload, and if there was no time to do the extra tuition or homework they were demanding, then I would instruct Julie to skip them. I told her that when she retested Julie it would have to be with extra conditions – with Julie supervised in a private room and given time for breaks – to cope with problems of concentration. And I told her that if she tried to take Julie off the A level course then she would have to fight me first. I have enough Maths of my own to know that any school should be able to get Julie through that exam reasonably well.

Julie was retested at the end of half term – in the revised conditions – and passed. Actually, not so much passed, as thrashed it: she got 100%. She no longer has to go to extra lessons or do extra homework or attend any more unpleasant meetings to be berated for poor performance. She was never in need of remedial Maths classes, she just needed someone to put more thought into assessing the performance of a student in her circumstances. She was really a sheep, and always a sheep. But in my view she was always really Julie, and nobody is a sheep or a goat.

Now we have a new problem; now she has been reclassified as a sheep, and a prize sheep, there is pressure on Julie to be “groomed” for Oxbridge application. This is no more appropriate than remedial classes were: she doesn’t need the stress of applying to Oxbridge. What she needs is someone to recognize what a fantastic achievement a place at any university will be – what a cause for celebration for a kid who has her illness – not a snobbish insistence that only a place at one unversity or another really “counts”.

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