I have always been something of a surprise to you. I know that. You genuinely never wanted me to be anything but happy and healthy and I am sure that the golden child I became was the last thing either of you expected. When I think back to my childhood, I remember Dad being in an almost perpetual state of shock. “You did what?! How?!” he would ask over and over at the exam results, the music awards, parents’ evening. Congratulations always came second.

I know it was never because you doubted me, but because it was so out of the blue. You didn’t bribe me with video games or pocket money, you didn’t tie me to the piano stool for hours, or come up with the merciless revision timetables that I insisted on following. It all came from me. I wasn’t some kind of antisocial child genius. I always had friends and a good social life, but I enjoyed working hard and always picked books over the TV. Neither of you finished school and, understandably, you never knew what to make of me.

Slowly, though, I watched you grow into it. You would struggle to hide your pride, talking about me to family or friends. At the concerts and awards ceremonies, it was always you I could hear at the back, clapping louder than anyone else. Looking out into the dark, I couldn’t see you, but I could feel you there. Smiling. And the surprises kept coming. A-levels, internships, national competitions. In no time, I was at university, the first in our family to go. But something had changed. Your excitement had lost its modest, humble innocence; it was bigger, bolder, darker. And I was suffocating.

You see, somewhere along the way and unbeknown to you, I lost my confidence. My childlike, reckless ambition was gone and in its place was a petrifying fear of failure. On my own and caught up in expectation, I began to struggle and panic. I started to miss lectures and stopped eating.

Before every deadline, I would pull a week of all-night study sessions in the library, editing the same essay over and over, convinced I would fail. After, I would drink until I passed out, spend entire weekends high on anything I could find, desperate to forget about it all. I brushed off worried friends with jokes about my hectic schedule and laughed when the university suggested counselling. I cried so much.

In the middle of February, I woke up to find that I hadn’t left my room in nearly a week. I would sleep for days and when I was awake I would spend hours lying there, crippled by fear, tormenting myself. Sleep became a refuge. I could ignore the lump in my throat, the knots in my stomach, the feeling that at any moment I might fall. I would get dressed, then find myself back in bed, my mind numb, the days blurred one into another. I was losing control, ruining everything. I was going to let you down.

I came home for Easter but nothing had changed. We toasted the first-class marks and you would joke that only I could keep up my freakish love of books alongside the crazy parties you saw on Facebook. I couldn’t bear the idea of telling you, of doing anything to upset my perfect balancing act, your golden child.

I graduate next week and am desperately hoping that this means it is all over. I’ve got a job lined up and for the first time, there will be no marks to report or prizes to win. I am going to try to focus on getting better. But, Mum and Dad, I just can’t tell you how sad I am. It would break you. The only thing you ever wanted was for me to be happy and I’ve failed you. You never needed any of this and I pushed you to want it. I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry. I love you both so much.

Anonymous