December 2021. I hesitate across the evening college grounds, counting the minutes to the upcoming English Drinks event. Self-doubt overrides my thoughts, accompanied by a rapidly increased heartbeat. I approach the Naz Shah Centre in Worcester yet falter at the entrance. I retreat to the grounds for ten minutes before returning. On arrival, overwhelming visual and auditory cacophonies bombard my senses in seconds. Each conversation blurs into one insurmountable whole, forming an indiscernible white noise approaching fever-pitch intensity. This intensity cultivates belaboured inner questions: “Why is no one sitting down? Is everyone formulated into friendship groups? Is there a dress code I missed? What are the rules of interaction?” My internal monologue becomes ever-more personalised: “What am I even doing here?”.
The noise intensifies further as I peruse the room. Maintaining any degree of eye contact becomes impossible. I am shaken and exhausted in seconds. I flee in terror and confusion, retreating to my accommodation. After spending 30 minutes catching my breath, I try again. This time, I retreat again even more rapidly, followed by a demeaning internal monologue: “What is wrong with me?”. Nearly 90 minutes after my first breakdown, I finally enter successfully and gradually assimilate. Yet the ordeal exhausts me, seeing me regularly clutter my words.
Whilst this event is the most vivid example of social and sensory burnout I can remember at university, it is only one of many. As an autistic person, these anxiety-induced experiences are endemic to university life. Although being autistic and socially anxious are not mutually guaranteed (with very different diagnostic criteria), they tend to overlap.
As such, events which are commonplace and prosaic for many can become daunting and overwhelming for neurodivergent students. I have experienced panic attacks amidst preparing for unattended formals, flinched at the thought of attending a bop, and shied away from publicly eating meals with others. I cannot eat anything too textured and avoid loud, crowded rooms, making it overwhelming to participate in formal events or parties. Even my “clutter” stifles conversation. A fluency disorder diagnosed by my former speech and language therapist, causing me to speak in bursts so quickly that I become unintelligible, often accompanied by excessive interjections, sudden pauses and skipped words.
Although being autistic has undeniably strengthened my character, allowing me to ascertain thorough knowledge of specialised interests, it comes with a dilemma at university. I crave interaction with others, yet I withdraw to isolating myself in accommodation almost daily.
On the one hand, isolation acts as a damage-limitation exercise, ameliorating sensory overload and giving me time to reflect. It provides a refuge for relaxation, satisfying my core interests. But it also defies a core facet of my personality. Isolation may be my default setting, but I am not introverted. I can interact actively in one-to-one scenarios and love connecting with others.
With this in mind, how many neurodivergent students at university go unnoticed and unheard of? 25% of autistic children go undiagnosed, whilst an autism diagnosis itself remains shrouded in stigma. This means that others could be struggling within Universities without recognition or support. I have benefited from a diagnosis of autism, dyspraxia and inattentive ADHD from a young age. Not all neurodivergent students at university will have these benefits. Many aren’t aware of the DSA’s (Disabled Students’ Allowance) existence, an outlet responsible for specialist financial support.
At school, I was granted an EHCP (Educational and Health Care Plan). I had a support network established, providing me with LSA one-to-one specialist support, special provisions for exams, and clear timeframes for these support structures. The support network integral to my EHCP evaporated when my time at university began, complicating the adjustment process further. The DAS (Disability Advisory Service) has provided helpful one-to-one support, yet this support does not accompany a broader tutor-based network. This forces my tutors to respond to my personal needs individually rather than systemically, manifesting in my sending them flustered emails every other week, asking for adjustments and help.
A lack of clarity in government measures designed to accommodate disabled students does not help. The Equality Act of 2010 outlines a proposal for “reasonable adjustments”, yet does not specify what these “adjustments” are, nor does it clarify how a disabled student should adapt to university life after parting ways with their EHCP.
The number of disabled students in UK universities has increased from 2,815 in 2010-11 to 10,595 in 2017-18. However, under 40% of autistic students achieve a degree. Reasons cited generally involve social isolation, lack of access to the DSA, and poor executive functioning. As someone with executive dysfunction, I can confirm that it makes basic organisational tasks incredibly difficult, despite remaining intrinsic to university life and future employment prospects.
Here, I must make a distinction: I am not the problem, but the structures that have failed to support me are. I am neurodivergent and not in need of a cure. Autism is not a “disorder”. However, I am still technically disabled. I embrace my neurodiversity and would be an intrinsically different (and likely more uninteresting) person without it, but I acknowledge the challenges it posits in everyday life.
As outlined by neurodiversity activist John Robison: “Neurodiversity doesn’t deny disability because disability is absolutely real, but neurodiversity posits that we have a mix of disability and exceptionality amongst all of us”. It can entail unbridled creativity and uniqueness. Neurodivergent students often excel in specialised subjects and areas of interest, and these positive traits could flourish under a more secure support network. Neurodivergent conditions do not erode after the university admissions process. With more universities offering specialised support consistent with schooling, and a programme to help those left undiagnosed, neurodivergent students could thrive.
The DSA and DAS are effective starting points, providing helpful accommodations and cathartic outlets where I can discuss my experiences without shame, but universities need to go further. In accommodating neurodivergent students, we should prevent anxiety rather than simply reacting to it. Autism can be a superpower “given the right circumstances”, as Greta Thunberg acknowledges. But we should continue to accommodate those at university who require extended support networks, and not blithely assume that the need for such networks disappears at university age.