Apostilles and Diplomas. To Hell with Them

Hearing yet another forecast about the prospect of a winter without power or heat in invincible Ukraine, a wave of gloom washed over me. I’ve lived through this before, and I have zero desire to repeat the experience. Clearly, I must be unworthy of living in such a saintly nation.

So, it’s time to leave. I’ve already applied for my international driver’s license. When I finally got around to my diplomas, an AI helpfully suggested I get them apostilled. What a bizarre procedure. It’s not even a full legal validation for the West, just another rubber stamp screaming: "Yes! A real, flesh-and-blood rector signed this." Hmph...

If it's simply a matter of authenticity and convincing someone, a quick cross-reference with the university's electronic archives or the Vernadsky National Library, where my academic papers are stored, is more than enough. Besides, it’s not as if Harvard representatives are currently chasing me down, begging me to accept a professorship. If they ever do show up, I’ll just hand them the diplomas and let them deal with the red tape.

But the real question is something else entirely: since earning that blessed, yet utterly outdated title of Candidate of Psychological Sciences (and my Master’s, for that matter), have those pieces of paper ever actually been of any use to me?

I did spend a semester teaching psychology at the Ministry of Internal Affairs Academy. It was a hell of an experience. My students adored me; cadets from other cohorts scrambled to sneak into my lectures, and I arranged highly specific field trips for them—like visits to the local prison and the psych ward. Badass? Definitely. But I’m not entirely sure I’d want to do it all over again.

I’ve been invited on TV as an expert, where my academic degree was proudly announced. And beyond that?

I highly doubt my academic credentials leave any impression on my clients today. Do they even make it as far as the "About the Author" page?

A deep understanding of cuckold dynamics, the intricate mechanisms of BDSM, and the subtle architecture of femdom authority doesn't rest on a foundation of university lectures. Well, except maybe for the title of my dissertation, which sounds utterly terrifying to those who love a good scare: Attitudes Toward the Death Penalty as a Component of the Professional Consciousness of Legal Practitioners.

On top of everything else, I also happen to be an academic ghostwriter. Once, I had the distinct displeasure of conversing with a pompous little prick, puffed up with his own self-importance, who had purchased my research through a middleman. He had no idea who I was and confidently paraded around with "his" dissertation—the very one I had written. In a perfect world, one wouldn’t aid and abet such frauds. I can only hope his purchased degree served him just as well as my real one has served me.

What truly matters is that the most fascinating people I’ve crossed paths with have never once asked about my regalia. They saw my depth and my knowledge, and they wanted to get to know me better. I prefer to keep gravitating toward people like that, even if I get cast out and shunned by the sunken-chested worshippers of extra rubber stamps.

Nelli Verkhovska PhD in Psychology For more on alternative relationships, check out my YouTube channel