Guess what. I really was assaulted. I really was in court. I didn’t forge that subpoena. Or the letters from the DA’s office stating court dates. Or the letter of verification from Victim’s Assistance. I really was sick the entire month of February. That was a real doctor’s note, from the real student health center, from a real doctor. No, they don’t know what is/was wrong with me. No, I do not have to give you access to my medical records. Yes, my grandmother is dying. Yes, those plane ticket stubs are from me flying out so I could see her for one LAST time in my life. Yes, I can get you a real letter from Hospice. No, you probably won’t care. Yes, I do have a real sleeping disorder. Sometimes it prevents me from coming to class. So does my anxiety disorder. So does my post-traumatic stress disorder. By this point, were you even willing to LOOK at a letter from my psychiatrist? No. One, count them, ONE professor gave me ANY flexibility this semester. Why didn’t the others? Because my reasons “weren’t good enough”. Congratulations to my professors for helping fuck my life. I hope you’re proud of yourselves.
So I’m sorry that the timing of my grandmother’s death is inconvenient for you, inasmuch that it falls during finals. I’m sorry that I was ill during midterms. I’m sorry that I can’t handle my life, and it’s because of people like you, because of people who assume that I’m lying. Guess what? Just because other students have lied to you doesn’t mean that I am lying to you now.
I’ll be meeting with the dean at my earliest convenience. Unfortunately, right now, I have family business to attend to.
Also, thank you to the one professor I have who understands that sometimes, yes, life does shit on you, and no matter how hard you try you might just need a little understanding, or a little extra time to get an assignment in. Because of your willingness to see the truth when it hits you like a brick to the head, I did wonderfully in your class.