27 January 1977

I give below some extracts from my diary of 27-Jan-77 when I was in my 21st year. More similar can be found at http://www.colinbrough.co.uk.
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It has rained tolerably heavily today, on and off, and when I went out ... I got wet. I am reminded of what was probably my first Sunday morning walk at Cambridge. On reflection, during my first few weeks here in October 1974 it rained a lot. Anyway, getting wet on this first walk caused me to feel very dismal. Recollections are returning to me. I was worried about unforeseen consequences with which I might not be able to deal. It is the newness of situations which is frightening, or depressing. I did not know, for example, at that stage whether I would be able to manage without overspending my grant. I did not know where any of the shops were in the town.
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I think though (really I do) - that I, being schizoid, am more sensitive to strange situations than the average person. I have never been alone into a restaurant, or a theatre, or an opera, etc., etc., etc. (to quote The King and I, or at least, the king. I do not like going into strange cinemas. I nearly went to see The Devils sometime last year, but decided against it on seeing the waiting queue. I have noticed of late that I do not like standing about in shops, investigating the wares. People look at me and expect things of me.
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One true thing one could say about me is that I am sensitive to people’s expectations of me. I am now analysing my schizoidism, you understand. I am coming to believe that my being schizoid (I am not really sure this is the right term; some authors prefer schizothymic) is explicable from the sole hypothesis of sensitivity to criticism.
I am reserved because I do not wish to provoke criticism of my actions. Of course, sometimes I feel people are criticising me (not necessarily explicitly, naturally) (forgive me for editing this [by deletions], but I do not wish to write absolute rubbish) for my lack of activity, especially speech activity, but I would expect you, the reader (whoever you may be), to understand that I prefer to be criticised for doing nothing rather than for doing something wrong. That does not read quite right. Perhaps criticism sounds too much like explicit criticism, where I mean tacit criticism.
The point is, that doing something is more likely, if it provokes criticism at all, to provoke responses unarguably critical, from which I would suffer more; whereas doing nothing provokes at worst hesitant criticism, which I may not even be sure is criticism, from which I suffer (relatively) little.
To write down my self-consciousness in performing certain acts makes me feel a right idiot. But there you are, it feels different when it is not exteriorised.
The answer is to make lots of friends, and do things with them. However, I do not want friends.
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I imagine the average person, so far from suffering physically from the presence of others, obtains physical pleasure from it. I suppose people like companionship. But I, for example, have a physical aversion to looking into people’s eyes. This sometimes manifests itself even when I am looking at pictures (I have noticed this only recently), at newsreaders (for example) on the television, or into the mirror.
This is a very odd phenomenon. I only realise all these things together on occasions like this, when I am writing them down. I live from day to day for long periods without exactly noting the oddness of my behaviour.
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I think nonetheless I would not be happy on a desert island, lacking the stimulus even of books and television.
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I have noticed in the company of [my best friend] that I find it easier to talk when walking [as did Emily Brontë]. I am relieved of having to worry about whether I am looking into my opponent’s face, and what to do with my hands, ampersand cetera.