This essay is quite central to my work, helping to justify it. Please read on.

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Functional Illiteracy

Michael J Holme

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Introduction

Functional illiteracy is a term I approach from experience rather than scholarship. I have not researched it academically; instead, I describe what I believe it means in practice. For the purposes of this essay, functional illiteracy is something an individual has when basic reading and writing present persistent difficulties—difficulties significant enough to disadvantage them occupationally, emotionally, and intellectually.

It affects more than the ability to decode words. Comprehension in its broader sense is impaired. A daily newspaper, for example, is unlikely to be part of the routine. Even spoken comprehension can falter.

A brief search of the Amazon catalogue reveals few books on the subject, and those that do appear tend to examine educational systems rather than functional illiteracy itself. My aim is different: to highlight the positive side of realising, often late in life, that your parents, schools, and peers may have let you down—and that your reading and writing skills have held you back.

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Adapting Without Knowing It

Throughout my early life, I adapted naturally rather than strategically. I gravitated toward subjects built on numbers, symbols, and mnemonics—mathematics, chemistry, classical piano, computing. These fields allowed me to progress without confronting my weaknesses in reading and writing.

Later, the humanities began to interest me: religion, psychology, sociology. But being almost unable to read relevant books, my knowledge was limited to my own experiences. Eventually, I discovered the strange blessing of unread ignorance. Apart from technical books, the only books I have fully read are:

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory – Roald Dahl, Kes – Barry Hines, The Gamekeeper – Barry Hines, Of Mice and Men – John Steinbeck, Mere Christianity – C.S. Lewis, The Pigeon – Patrick Süskind and Post Office – Charles Bukowski.

(I managed two-thirds of Sons and Lovers.)

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Bipolar Disorder and Writing

I have a bipolar diagnosis. Much of my prose was written during periods of elevation or hypomania. Bipolar disorder is characterised by alternating high and low moods. The high periods gave me energy to write; the depressive periods, though painful, often yielded deeper insights—exaggerations of a more level state that allowed me to see myself clearly.

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Learning to Write

After completing hundreds of poems on a distance-learning course, I gradually gained confidence with English. I began writing prose more often, sharing conclusions and experiences rather than repeating academic knowledge. My hope was to contribute to a shared body of common sense—arrived at through lived experience rather than formal study.

Wisdom, as I describe it, is the ability to call upon life experiences to make serious decisions confidently. Knowledge is wisdom distilled: experience written down, stripped of its original emotions, and therefore employed less confidently by the unbacked intellect.

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Memory, Writing, and Self-Understanding

My memory has always been poor. Since 1997, writing has helped me compensate. Threads emerged, ideas tightened, and I began to understand my own mental processes. Writing gave me greater self-confidence and improved everyday decision-making. Even those with good memories benefit from writing: it allows ideas to be shared at the reader’s pace rather than the speaker’s.

As Hermann Hesse said, “wisdom cannot be imparted,” but perhaps a seed can be planted.

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Early Life and Schooling

I have no memory of being read to as a child. My second wife, Michelle, recalls her mother reading copiously to her—and she reads and writes very well as an adult.

In school reading lessons, the better readers read aloud. Near exam time, we were shown films of the books—presumably to compensate for classroom inattention. Comprehension tests followed a predictable pattern: easy literal questions first (“How old was Mary?”), then harder ones requiring absorption of the passage’s spirit. I was hopeless at that point. As I wrote:

“I’m not much better now, hence I consider myself functionally illiterate.”

The problem extended to spoken words. In groups, I often lost the thread. Anxiety worsened concentration. Once a fragment was lost, the rest of the discourse derailed.

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Occupation and Avoidance

An autistic element may overlap with my functional illiteracy. As a child, I obsessively read data—statistics about pistols and rifles, calibres, muzzle velocities, barrel lengths. I could remember these easily.

I studied chemistry and computing at university, subjects requiring few essays. I learned to sight-read classical music, again avoiding English comprehension. Eventually, I worked in computing, somewhat avoiding people. Had I attended a private school, perhaps my imbalances might have been addressed.

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Poetry and Reinvention

Poetry was something I did not want to read. Plain English was hard enough; metaphorical verse was harder. Yet I felt compelled to write. I joined a distance-learning course and began tentatively, apart from one poem—Panic Attack—which took thirty or forty hours to write.

My collection became My Beautiful Diary, each poem dated and rooted in my life. Over time, my writing shifted from events to ideas. I unknowingly entered a pantheistic phase, later labelled by a friend. Without reading books, I reinvented the wheel—unashamedly and validly.

Later, my writing became more psychological, often linked to bipolar and psychotic experiences.

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Spreading the Word

I hope this essay illustrates my advancement in writing, even if my reading remains poor. I believe it is our duty to strengthen original discoveries by making mistakes, avoiding established advice, and sharing our findings. How else is common sense arrived at?

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The Path

My path of functional illiteracy became a strength, though not until my forties. Carl Jung suggested that life begins at forty; before that, we collect data. I eventually sensed that many people around me had not been forced by their mistakes into consciousness. They were adrift in the system, cycling through cars, property, holidays, and offspring—until a setback occurred.

By contrast, those cursed with avoidable mistakes are forced into introspection. That path is not paved with gold, but its goal is to become you, not a capitalistic clone.

Knowledge is not the path of individuality; it is bolting on parts from others. Individuality often comes with hardship.

As the sayings go:

“The help I didn’t get was all the help I needed.” “Good judgement comes from experience, and experience? Well, that comes from poor judgement.”

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Closing Thought

Functional illiteracy shaped my life, but it also shaped my insight. This essay is not about lamenting disadvantage; it is about recognising how adversity can force a person inward, where wisdom—slowly, painfully—takes root.

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