Pop quiz: what does today – the third Monday in January; supposedly the single most depressing day of the year – have in common with Marmite? Take a second.
I bet your mind went straight to the love/hate thing, right? And you’re wrong, but you’re not wrong. What Blue Monday and Marmite have in common is a discourse that has slipped into the public consciousness, but was actually invented by a PR company. In the case of Blue Monday, it’s a thing that originally existed to sell you a holiday; preferably from Sky Travel, who claimed to have calculated the date using an equation which factored in the weather, your bank balance, the time since Christmas, and a need to take control of your situation, among other things. As for the Marmite thing? I guess they had to throw their hands up and admit you might hate it, because they had no other way of selling you a salty, black goop made from a single-cell fungus (for the record, I am #teamyeahmarmiteisokayiguess. Take that, consumerism).
But yes, it’s a difficult time of year. You’ve put on weight, you’re probably getting less sunshine than you need, and I’m sure Sky Travel weren’t wrong when they figured we were packing in our New Year’s resolutions right around now. One of mine was to practise yoga regularly, and I could count my practises so far on one hand even if I didn’t have fingers. But I take issue with today being labelled the most depressing for several reasons. Firstly – and I hope my sarcasm translates here – oh here’s a great idea, just in case there’s anyone out there doubting what a heap of trash this freezing, debt-filled, non-festive working Monday is, let’s go ahead and make a big deal about how it literally does not get worse than this. I mean, is there anything more depressing than the most depressing day of the entire year? You don’t need to answer that.
And secondly, please accept my sworn guarantee that this will not be the most depressing day of your year. Okay, you have a one in three hundred and sixty-five chance that it is, but I like those odds. Because life is going to happen to you. There’ll be tears. There’ll be bad news and awful fights and crushing disappointments. You will get ill. You will log on to Twitter and see another heartbreaking hashtag, or a news story that makes you want to punch a wall. And maybe some days, the sun will be shining, your wallet will be heavy, your summer holiday will be booked, your workload will be your bitch, and it’ll still be your Blue Monday. Because whether or not you’re in sterling mental health, the human experience is more complex than an equation about money and the weather. You are more complex than that equation.
Let’s bring this back to me being a massive New Year’s Nerd, because my third point is that this time of year gets a bad rep. I don’t want to be the loser who loves January, but I have got it’s back when people start hating. This is your clean slate, and I get it: it’s hard to swallow when you first scuff it up a bit, or when all the build-up is over you’re still just you, in the same place and the same job, with the same character flaws. But just like all this unexpected bad stuff is going to hit you over the course of 2017, so is the good. Things change – they can change in a second, like the year. Your new beginning doesn’t have to be January first.
In a few short months you’ll be wondering how the year has passed you by, so enjoy January for being the only time all the stuff you’re looking forward to is yet to come. Here, I made a list:
Your birthday, most probably
Valentine’s Day, if you’re gross
All those bank holidays crammed into May
Pink, shirtless men with muffin tops and cans of Carling the first day it’s fifteen degrees outside
Disney’s live action Beauty and the Beast, out March 17. No, I’m not sponsored, I’ve just had it in my diary since 2015.
Daffodils, boys and girls. DAFFODILS!
Anyone who has ever rung in the New Year with me is probably aware of the uniquely poignant and philosophical mood it puts me in. I’m the person who asks if you have any New Year’s resolutions, despite no one ever being enthusiastic to hear that question. I’m the person who will swoop on you from the other side of the room if I hear you utter ‘I don’t really care about New Year’s Eve’ and explain in an unsolicited rant why you’re wrong. I’m always the most sober at midnight, because while everyone else at the party has taken the evening as an opportunity to be merciless with their livers, I want to be cognisant, sensitive, ready. In short, I’m a massive New Year’s Nerd (NYN).
I know January first is just another day, but that’s kind of the entire point: every day can be January first if you want it to be! New Year is just our best shot at remembering that. It infuses the lives of NYNs with fresh purpose and motivation. It gives us a dose of live-for-todayness, and if you can maintain it until New Year’s Eve rolls round again, I hear they make smiling pot-bellied statues of you a la Buddha.
This is why I’m so into New Year’s Resolutions as well. I say I’m going to do something differently almost every single day of my life, but if you embrace the New Year, you can make it mean more. Think of how you’re most careful with your belongings when they’re new. If I asked you to stop scuffing the toes on your three year old, worn out boots, it probably wouldn’t mean much to you, because what difference would it make anyway? Looking at your failings and beating yourself up over them is not the way to motivate yourself to do better. But feeling good about the fact that you’ve eaten your five a day every single day this year, even if it’s only January third, is how you become a new you!
But enough. I will probably spend most of January blogging about my renewed enthusiasm. I’m here to talk about this year. 2016. The year that, if the internet is to be believed, literally murdered David Bowie, Alan Rickman, Carrie Fisher, and a whole load more of your faves. The year of nightclub shootings and [more] bombings in France. The year of Brexit and The Donald FFS. The world at large had a pretty terrible 2016, and almost as if my stars wanted to make a show of solidarity, mine will also not be making any best-of lists when I buy the farm.
Exhibit A: my 2016 New Year’s resolutions, annotated:
Give up alcohol and sugar for all of January.
Get a job.
Here’s the thing: I’ve filled out more applications for part-time work than I’ve admitted to anyone. Things I’m in no way qualified for, things I’m overqualified for, and things awfully similar to what I was doing in my last job. Someone has deemed me unsuitable for every single one. Can they tell my heart’s not in it? Erm, I write a heckin’ exceptional supporting statement, so absolutely not. And besides, some of them I’ve been truly excited about. Are they put off by the long stint of unemployment? It’s highly likely. But whatever. There’s nothing I can do about that other than continue to believe that when the perfect job comes along, I’ll be the perfect candidate.
Publish my novel as an ebook.
Check! This was a big’un and I did it. Could I have done it better? Yes. In hindsight, I wish I’d thought to promote it more in advance of putting it on sale, but I’m not losing sleep over it. Getting it out there and having people I’ve never even met read it has been beyond exciting – and the work that went into it gave me real purpose for a few exciting weeks – but this was never meant to be my big break.
Don’t get ill. All year.
Aim high, right? No, I did not achieve this.
Finish current novel.
There was this schedule, this time last year. This beautiful, colour-coded, thoughtfully planned timeframe for a first draft of book #2. It expired seven months ago, and no, I have not finished my novel. I might have if I’d worked harder, or managed my time differently, or not made that beautiful schedule in the first place, and approached the project without as much pressure. The thing about New Year is that I get to leave the ifs and buts in the past. No, I didn’t finish my novel. Yes, I’m frustrated by that. But it’s not going to stop be putting this one back of my list of resolutions this year.
In the end, I’ve realised it’s not the resolutions that matter when I look back and pass judgement on the year. Or it is, but not in the way I’m valuing them. I pick a list of things I think will help me grow and change, and it’s the growing and changing that makes for a successful year, whether I planned for the specifics last December or not. The problem this year wasn’t that I didn’t finish my novel, it’s that I didn’t finish anything, or start anything either. 2016 never gained momentum. The story arc was lacking. The star did her best with the source material, which was promising in parts, but repeatedly failed to deliver. While 2016 improved on the jarring pacing and frankly atrocious first half of its predecessor, it was probably, in retrospect, damaged by the hype. It was no way near as good as it promised to be.
That’s not to say there haven’t been flashes of brilliance. I visited Barcelona. I started learning Spanish so I can go back. I saw two of my closest friends get married. I started a blog, and the reactions of people who see echoes of their own stories in mine has been more than I could have hoped for. I made my first paycheck as a writer, and I even won an award for the same piece. Yes! I won an award. I taught my dog to high-five; IT’S THE EFFING CUTEST THING YOU’VE EVER SEEN. I’m hashtag blessed, but I’m also living in this agonising stasis, at perhaps the most important juncture of my career (aka the one which dictates whether I will ever have one) – and it’s giving me déjà vu. This New Year looks uncannily like the last one.
Here’s one thing about 2016 though: it’s over. It’s time to try again. I’m still a diehard NYN, and the New Year spirit is already bubbling inside me (not a euphemism for I have been drunk off champagne for the entire festive period, but that too). It might look like I’m Groundhog-Daying this thing, but only Bill Murray gets to live his mistakes again, and I swear on a pair of novelty 2017 glasses, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Thirteen minutes ago, I got the news that somebody had looked at my hard-won, beloved brainchild and said no. Again.
I’m talking about my first novel, completed seventeen months ago after five near-impossible years, and then reluctantly self-published as an ebook this year to predictably poor success. Last month, I decided in a last-ditch effort to not let it die that I would enter it for an award for unpublished/self-published children’s novels. An extremely competitive award; one I barely stood a chance of winning. I knew this. I knew it the way I know the chances that Liam Hemsworth will knock on my front door today and tell me fate brought him here.
And I just found out I didn’t make the longlist, which is something I thought I was prepared for. Oh, how silly of me. If you’ve ever bought a lottery ticket and then mentally spent all of your winnings before finding out that you have inevitably been suckered, then you’ll know how this type of thing happens. Only – replace ‘buying a lottery ticket’ with pouring your heart and soul into something, and baring everything you have for it to potentially be tossed aside with the consideration of all but a moment; even to be loathed, pitied, ridiculed by people who know better than you. And replace ‘mentally spending your winnings’ with grappling to hold down your crippled, floundering self-belief. Because, when you stop lying to yourself, you know that you don’t buy the ticket unless a small part of you thinks you might win.
It’s so, so painful. It feels like the kind of humiliation you think only happens in a bad dream, when you get to school and discover you’re naked. It feels like being six inches tall. Because it’s not just one rejection, it’s the most recent of dozens, and each one represents a plethora of compelling reasons why I should just give up, and a set of questions I’m screaming in my head: At what point does perseverance become wishful thinking? At what point does an effort to be resilient make you blind? Am I, maybe, just plain not good enough?
And the most difficult to get my head around: if someone told me, categorically and without a shred of doubt, convinced me that my work was bad, would I even feel any differently about it? The slow decay of my hopes for my first novel has been like a drawn-out breakup, or even a kind of mourning. I know I need to let it go and move on, and to degrees I have. But my pride in that novel doesn’t come from knowing it’s good, it comes only from knowing that I wrote the absolute best story that I could at the time. Watching it die is a real heartbreak, but one I’ll recover from eventually. But days like today make me question how much more I can take. What will happen if my next novel suffers the same fate? How much worse will the blows be in ten years? Twenty years? When do I quit?
Under the swelling and bruises is this odd little masochist of a woman. She’s stubborn. She’s grown a thick skin because she knew what she was getting herself into and she is, in fact, oddly joyful. This is the stuff success is made of, after all. Every time it gets harder, I get to prove to myself that I’m up to the challenge – and even if I spend the rest of my life getting knocked back like this, knowing I’m that kind of person is truly success enough. Today I realised that self-belief isn’t effected by rejection, it’s effected by what you do next, and mine’s been battered by thirteen minutes (turned two hours) of wallowing, which is quite enough. Now to nurse it back to health.
My name’s Hannah, and I’m an introvert. You may have already got that impression if you’ve read my blog before, or met me, or had in your head a picture of someone who calls themselves ‘a writer’. I can’t imagine I’d have made myself one if I swung the other way. Or, in fact, made many of the decisions I have in the last few years. If I was an extrovert, I think this long stretch of unemployment would have driven me mad with boredom and loneliness. Introversion is an advantage in my case, but a lot of the time, it’s not, and that’s what I’m here to gripe about today – oh, the prejudice!
When I hear other introverts describe themselves – their tendencies to prefer solitude and working alone; their fear of large groups and public speaking; the antisocial/weird/old person inside them who calls a good book and a cup of tea (read: eight cups of tea) a pretty heckin’ perfect Friday night – I’m always sad to hear how defensive or apologetic they are. But I don’t blame them. We’re living in an extrovert world. One of open-plan offices, ceaseless communication and group projects (someone take this spider-chart we made together, crumple it into a ball and choke me with it please).
To 50-60% of you, I probably sound like that closeted misanthrope we all know, jokingly bemoaning being forced to leave the house, or socialise, or God forbid talk to somebody. Because that’s the role you’re forced to play as an introvert. You probably ham it up on occasion, just to be sure everyone knows that you know you’re weird. But you’re not.
I know I’m not. I don’t hate people. I’m not even shy. I am just – by popular definition of the word – a person who prefers to focus their attention on the inner world of ideas and impression, rather than the outer world of people and things. Your point on the introversion-extroversion spectrum is about how you take in information, make decisions, and interact with your surroundings, and it dictates your comfort levels for various stimuli and situations i.e. a crowded dancefloor, a deserted beach, a spotlight on a stage. We all find ways to process and appreciate experiences that suit those on all points of the spectrum, but if you’re not comfortable talking about yourself in front of thirty people on the first day of training at your new job, that’s not a failing on your part; it’s just who you are. Maybe your new boss should have considered a one-on-one exercise as an alternative. Did he even think about that? No, he only thinks about himself.
Whether you’re super introverted, on the cusp of ambiversion (somewhere in the middle), or just questioning, maybe read Quiet by Susan Cain, and allow it to make you feel more secure about yourself. Because everybody has strengths and weaknesses, and yours aren’t worse, they’re just thrown into stark relief in a society that doesn’t appreciate you. Yes, extroverts are better conversationalists, but introverts are more cerebral. Yes, extroverts make better leaders, but introverts are innovators. We need each other, and we need room for our differences.
So embrace being soft-spoken, observant, conflict-averse, solitary, or whatever you are that marks you as an introvert. You’re allowed to have only one or two close friends and be fine with it. You’re allowed to think you work best by yourself. You’re allowed to be wiped out after a weekend of socialising, even when you’ve enjoyed yourself. Raise your tiny, shaking voice and stand up for who you are. Or don’t, because that’s scary.
The protagonist and narrator of the novel I’m writing suffers from depression. It’s about the only thing I have in common with her, and yet somehow one of the hardest parts to write. And I don’t mean emotionally. There may be some scenes to come that hit close to home or leave me feeling a little exposed, but this would almost be a blessing given the situation I’m currently in, which is this: I don’t know how to write her as recognisably depressed without her depression becoming a parody.
Because whatever I intend her to be, meaning happens at the reader’s end and not mine. Most of the time we’re told that we can’t know what another person is or isn’t going through, and never to make assumptions just because a person’s behaviour doesn’t read in your mind as depressed. But I can’t ask my reader to suspend any scepticism and just try to understand; it’s my job to make them. I’m inviting people into her mind, all of it, and if they don’t believe in her depression, I’ve failed.
I have several options here. I could semi-autobiography this thing and write all the quirks of her mental health like it’s my own, but this isn’t as easy or convenient as it sounds. As I said, we have nothing else in common. Her depression doesn’t come from the same place as mine. The things that test her limits aren’t the ones that test mine. It would take a serious and undesirable rewrite to make this work.
Or, I could ham it up with a lot of in depth description of her state of mind. This doesn’t appeal either, as this is how I risk her sounding like a stereotype – or even a caricature – of a depressed person (not to mention the fact that this isn’t what the novel’s about; my character’s mental illness is a fact of her life, not the driving force of her story). But writing someone else’s mental illness kind of feels like just that.
I’d like to think I’ve written some suitably rounded and believable characters in the past, but there’s so much more responsibility this time. Depression is so misunderstood by so many people, and it’s not like I’m trying to write a manual for your insensitive second cousin, but his understanding of this one person and her singular struggle is kind of essential. But when I can’t even understand someone else’s mental illness when it reads on the bottle as the same as mine, how is he supposed to?
Because, in reality, depression is just a messy and bizarre smorgasbord of unknowns. Boxing it up neatly with a diagnosis lets us assign treatment based on a set of visible and measurable symptoms. It’s not just helpful to call something depression or anxiety or bipolar disorder, it’s necessary if those suffering with mental illness are to have any sort of outside intervention. But the fact is, we can never really know what goes on inside another person’s mind. How do you compare one person’s depression to another?
My mum says this thing about autism: that if you know one person with autism, you know just one person with autism, and it’s the same deal with depression. The diagnosis doesn’t account for everything else the individual’s mind is made of; like the things that comfort and antagonise them; the memories and habits informing how they experience the now; and the connections and assumptions they don’t even realise they’re making. Depression or no depression, we all have these things in common, and at the same time, all we really have in common is that each of us has a completely unique and personal perspective.
This is what makes creating characters so fun, but they all have to come from something inside the writer, so my challenge is to write her in a way that’s respectful of the fact depression is all kinds of things, and most of them I can’t even imagine.
I guess I won’t know if I’ve succeeded until somebody reads it. The proof is in the pudding, as they say, and it ain’t gonna be cooked any time soon if all I do is whine about it, so BYE x
In the space of a week or so this spring, I blazed through seasons one and two of You’re the Worst, and have now (unfortunately) caught up in time to poodle along at the rate of one episodes per week of season three. Sad face.
And I am utterly obsessed. I picked it up as something light to watch in bitesize twenty-two minute chunks, but soon found that as LOLingly hilarious as it is, it’s also bitingly real. It’s real-life romantic instead of rom-com romantic AKA close to zero romance, but still tender in all the right ways. It features a very realistic number of CARBS. But mainly, the characters. The emotionally-stunted, self-involved, fucked-up characters. For the purpose of this post, let’s talk about Gretchen, played by Aya Cash.
Gretchen’s clinical depression isn’t introduced until season two, when she starts sneaking out in the middle of the night to cry in her car (while playing snake on her burner phone; she likes to play snake while she cries, so what?). Are you saying, a whole season in, they just dropped in a storyline about the main character being ‘suddenly’ depressed? Err, yeah, and it was great, and honest. She’s had it for forever, she tells Jimmy. Because depression can come and go, and it doesn’t always manifest as crying in your car, or lying in the foetal position like Gretchen does for large chunks of season two. Perhaps she just reached crisis point, and had actually been in a bad place all along. And perhaps it came out of nowhere and mowed her down. Either way, a storyline like this featuring so heavily in what is essentially a comedy is something I just had to talk about, because I friggin’ love it.
Comedy is funny for being real; for taking circumstances and situations we can all recognise – or at least imagine – and picking the lens through which we see them. You’ve got one of these lenses yourself, called your perspective, but despite the number of times you’ve probably been told that it’s the (not so) secret of happiness and the only thing that matters, it’s not such a doddle to control. Don’t feel bad. Everyone’s too close to their own problems, and I would bet you anything the ones who tell you to ‘turn that frown around’ in a faux helpful/low-key passive-aggressive way are the biggest messes when they’re having a bad day.
My point is, anyway, that film and television present a way of being able to examine the circumstances of our own lives from one step removed, and in whichever light the creators choose. And it’s safe to engage wholly and passionately with these narratives – and you know you’ve cried over the fake pains of fake people – precisely because they’re not real, and yet at the same time they’re more intimately told to us than those of the real people in our lives.
Because as the adage goes, ‘you’ve got to laugh’. Maybe not at yourself. Definitely not at other people. But whether you’re clinically depressed or just premenstrual, if you find yourself sobbing inconsolably because you hairsprayed your underarms and doused your ‘do in deodorant, know there’s a giggle in there somewhere. It’s ok if you can’t see it – that’s what TV’s for.
What’s more, anything that frames mental illness as something other than scary/potentially dangerous/awkward to acknowledge or deal with head on/contagious maybe??? is a very, very good thing. Take it from someone who knows that speaking openly about your depression can garner any number of responses, and many of them are less than chill. And that’s tough. My depression is a huge part of my story, especially as far as explaining my current circumstances goes, and if I can’t introduce it into conversation even passingly without being seen to be ‘oversharing’, it kind of puts me in a bind. I end up using euphemisms like ‘burnt out’ or ‘struggling’ or even the splendidly ambiguous ‘learning to be easier on myself’.
I can recommend You’re the Worst on so many levels, but in particular the level on which they handle mental illness without kid gloves and squeamishness. Besides Gretchen, the character of Edger is an Iraq veteran and PTSD sufferer, and as of the beginning of season three he’s made the decision to come off his meds – uh oh. I have everything crossed that they handle this story arc as classily as they have done Gretchen’s.
It’s now been fifteen months since I left my job. I planned to write an honest, laid-bare, in places humiliating account of why this is, but I’m not sure how to yet. I’m consistently in two minds about whether it’s nerve-wracking and uncomfortable but essentially a positive thing, or whether it’s nerve-wracking and uncomfortable because it’s a very bad idea and an awful failing. When I have a solid argument to pitch, I’ll let you know, but until then here’s one reason I don’t have a job: choices, or rather, a lack of having made any.
To illustrate this problem, here are the jobs I’ve given moderate to serious consideration this week alone:
Because: easy hours that compliment my writing schedule, limited interaction with the public, potential of changing a child’s life as they change mine, and then being played by Mandy Moore/Emma Roberts/Gemma Arterton in the movie version.
Obstacles: parents tend to want a person who can drive their kids around, and a license is another adult thing I do not have. However, I do have around twelve years’ experience with children from way back when I was one.
Likelihood verdict: something like this could work, just not this.
Because: I actually applied for a funeral director position once. I guess I like idea of it forcing me to feel, of never having the opportunity to get complacent, and of connecting with people when they really need it. That, and Six Feet Under.
Obstacles: driving, again, is a bonus. Plus I failed this situational test the job I applied for had me do, so someone thinks I’m not suitable.
Verdict: I’m going to listen to the universe. Probably not a good idea.
Because: I worry about those guys. I want to know everybody’s being nice to each other in there.
Obstacles: would very likely not be able to overpower anyone at a crucial moment. Also I have this pitchy, little girl voice that demands no respect whatsoever. Fair surprisingly well under pressure, however.
Verdict: may find it very fulfilling, may also die.
Because: I like the outdoors.
Obstacles: in the dream scenario, I’m doing this in the hundreds of square kilometres of Yosemite National Park, California, where I am not.
Verdict: I think my park ranger fantasy might be the ultimate manifestation of my wanderlust coupled with this little voice in my head that tells me to go toss my phone in a river and be at one with nature. Maybe someday.
Because: drank some wine, liked it, did indeed detect notes of red berries and chocolate.
Obstacles: have worked in hospitality before and it’s the fucking worst. This job is probably less drinking for a living and trips to Tuscany than paying for people’s dry-cleaning once you’ve spilled Merlot down them.
Verdict: already over the idea.
Because: learned that Pablo Escobar was worth $30 billion.
Obstacles: would have to research how one gets into this line of work. I have a feeling it’s more of a who you know than what you know type situation, in which case I’ve fallen at the first hurdle, but correct me if I’m wrong (my DMs are open). Also sales is something I usually find a little intimidating but your audience is more or less captive with this one. The most profitable drug operations tend to be family affairs, but I’m fairly certain I can get the other Mathewsons on board.
Verdict: is promising.
Because: watched The Martian. Would like to be able to save Matt Damon from space should the need present itself. Astrodynamics is what Donald Glover does in that movie, and the idea of something called the ‘Hannah Mathewson Manoeuvre’ appeals to me immensely.
Obstacles: skills I don’t have.
Verdict: realistically, this would be tough. But if I had the time, the money and the inclination, I could go back to school and get the A levels I don’t have in maths and physics, and then a second degree, and a masters, and a doctorate if I need that too. Our only limitations are the ones we place on ourselves or whatever. Going to put this one in the maybe pile.
Drug dealer it is then. But as much as being the next Pablo Escobar sounds like a perfect fit for me, my stomach does turns at the thought of committing; to anything from life as a drug lord to a weekend admin job. It all feels like admitting defeat, or an opportunity to get too comfortable again. Maybe all this job anxiety is an invaluable tool that keeps me pushing forward. Maybe my indecisiveness is confirmation that, really, I know which job I want. I just picked a bad one.
It’s almost A level results time, and I have an awful lot to say about that, but it could be summarised as you could not pay me enough to go through that shit again. Not millions. Not social media mogul numbers*. You. Could. Not. Pay. Me.
Now, I’m really not one for doling out advice. When the need presents itself, I like to be as vague and unhelpful as I can conceivably manage, because what the hell do I know? You’re really asking me what you’re doing wrong? Like, have you read my blog? But when it comes to you poor seventeen-year-olds, shackled to the UCAS conveyor belt your schools would like you to believe is the best and only way to plan your future, I have words of wisdom up to my eyeballs, so here are some things you should consider.
You’re a foetus.
There’s a high chance you’re not sure of your choices, but you’ve had to make some anyway. I wish someone had told me it was okay to be undecided. I wish someone had told me there was time. It only takes a few short years to be able to look back on your A levels and realise nothing was as dire as you thought it was, and all that pressure was artificial, and that it’s actually pretty hard to fuck up that badly when you’re seventeen.
Believe it or not, you DO NOT HAVE TO GO TO UNIVERSITY.
Your school is probably being judged on how many of its graduates get into great universities, and you have become a pawn of that system. Here’s the kicker though: if you go to university for you and you alone, and not to bolster your school’s reputation, then you can go whenever you want – there is no upper age limit on tuition fee loans in the UK. I cannot stress how confident I am of this next bit of advice: take a couple of years out. Not one year; that’ll barely get you out of the system for a couple of months before applications start again. Take some real time to grow into the adult you’ll become; to explore life outside of education; to realise that you don’t have to like what your friends like or want what your parents want for you. Maybe you’ll realise your future doesn’t lie in higher education at all. If you want to deliver pizzas or paint houses or walk dogs for a living, guess what? YOU CAN. That is not a lack of ambition; you’re only guilty of that if you decide what you want isn’t worth the effort involved. There’s value and joy to be found in a whole plethora of jobs that absolutely do not require a degree. Personally, I love me a bit of heavy lifting. I love being on my feet for an entire eight-hour shift (yes, future me is guilty of the purchase of one of those pretentious standing desks). What’s more, I believe thoroughly and whole-heartedly in the value of a little customer service experience, preferably when you’re young and malleable. Oxford might make you a brilliant academic, but working in a cinema for six years made me a better person, which is infinitely more valuable and didn’t cost me £36,000.
It’s not the end of the world if you make the wrong decisions
Getting your A level results and a spot at a great university just reeks of finality. I know it feels like the be all and end all. Now that you’ve hopped onto the successcalator (Trademark Hannah Mathewson) the only way is up, and if you fuck up, it’s all over. Well, it doesn’t work like that. If you ask me, you’ve come out of sixth form a success, not if you bagged straight As, but if you survived without having fashioned yourself a little Pit of Worthlessness and crawled up in it to die, the way I did. My point is, anyway, that you will probably wonder if you shouldn’t have studied a science instead of English Lit. Maybe you’ll question whether Sheffield would have been a smarter choice than Southampton. Perhaps you’ll come to rue the day you talked yourself out of that Erasmus Programme. And maybe it’ll be too late to change those decisions, but it’s okay. Life goes on, and you will find other ways. Whichever way this week and the coming months go for you, you will continue to make mistakes for your whole life, and the trick isn’t to try and help that, it’s to learn to deal, to keep moving forward, and to see open doors instead of missed opportunities.
If you’re wondering about my credentials for dispensing this wisdom, then here they are: I’ve lived through it. I flunked half my A levels, then much later on I got a first class degree from a great university, and you know what? Neither of those things has mattered. I mean, sure, if you’re dead set on becoming a doctor, or an architect, and you know what you’ve got to do to get there, then go for it. But if you’re floating about, waiting for something to drop, then cut yourself some slack. It’s more important to learn who you are, what makes you tick, and how to be happy and self-confident, than it is to be starting some £30k graduate job by the time you’re 24.
Just be brave, be curious, be open-minded, and apply yourself to whatever you do, because there’s more to learn from every single experience – A level physics, three months in Asia, a retail job – than a skill or knowledge set you might never use again.
It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay. Proud of you!
*alright I’ll think about it.
I sprained my ankle three weeks ago, and I’ve gone full Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window; peering covetously out at the mobile world, blinds drawn against the sweltering heat. Remember that summer I was so desperate for? Yeah, it’s happened and I’m missing it all.
For the most part, it’s been fine. A blessing, almost. Being bound to my desk with my foot up on a cushion has been good for my productivity at a really crucial time, when I’m trying to market my e-book all by myself. But it also fucking sucks. I’m going to be a bridesmaid in September and I was supposed to have a supermodel physique by now. Instead I’m slowly getting squishier, like the contents of the butter dish – just replace ‘hot weather’ with ‘consolatory Dairy Milk’. Also, I’m not sleeping well. It’s hard to get tuckered out when your biggest exertion over the course of the day is hopping one-footed up and down the stairs.
But my biggest complaint isn’t my lack of ‘thigh gap’ or the quality of my sleep. It’s that exercise is as good for my mind as it is for my body, and for a while I’m going without.
Let’s get one thing straight: the idea that you can put on your running shoes and go cure yourself of depression is ignorant and misguided on so many levels. For a start, it implies that depression is a symptom of laziness or inertia; that it’s a character flaw of sorts. Suggesting a simple, one size fits all solution that reduces a potentially life-threatening illness to a matter of lifestyle is, to put it mildly, unhelpful.
Maybe you know a depressed person whose exercise is limited to shuffling between the sofa and the fridge, and you’re thinking ‘but of course getting up and about would make them feel better! That’s how endorphins work!’ And perhaps you’re right. It’s just science, after all. It’s also nearly entirely beside the point. Let’s imagine you have polio. Your muscles have degenerated to nothingness, and you can barely stand. That’s not to say you wouldn’t get a boost of endorphins from a little jogging, and who wouldn’t benefit from that? You should do it; it’ll be good for you. Yeah, that’s pretty much what you’re saying to your friend with depression.
Your depressed friend probably knows that if they could pull themselves out of bed and get their heart rate up a little, then sure, maybe they’d feel a bit better for a while. And maybe they wouldn’t. Don’t assume. Don’t assume that they don’t want to. Don’t assume that they haven’t spent all their mental energy that day just working up to the idea. Don’t assume they never put their running shoes on, and get as far as the front door before they’re hit with the heart breaking fact that they’re kidding themselves; that their body and their mind don’t care what they want; that they’re just not capable.
And if you’re not sure, then don’t assume your depressed friend isn’t even more active than you are. Save from these last few weeks, I work out three to five times a week, and guess what? Still not cured. In my case – ‘recovering’ is guess you could say – I can usually find it in me to get moving, and it’s as useful as part of maintaining a routine and personal confidence as it is for my brain chemicals.
It’s never comfortable to make changes like this one when I don’t know what the effect will be on my precarious health, but you know what? I’m fine. I think I’m as good as I’ve been all year. Maybe I’d be even better if I was still routinely working out, but I think it just goes to show that there’s nothing make or break about a little cardio; that you can’t cure yourself with exercise any more than you can induce clinical depression by skipping it; and that you should probably watch where you’re stepping if you don’t want to spend your summer imagining the murderous plotting of your shady neighbours.
This thing came up on my Twitter feed a couple of weeks ago asking me to assess whether I was having a quarter-life crisis. That’s right, as well as spending the middle of your life in crisis (and by all definitions, that’s like a whole third of it, right?), it is also to be expected that the twenty to thirty period will be considerably rocky too.
I have always dismissed the idea that the quarter-life crisis is even a thing – despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Do I sometimes feel like I napped through orientation and have just woken up, been handed my adulthood credentials and told to hop to it? Sure. Do I experience physical nausea when I picture 95% of the potential versions of myself fifteen years from now? Occasionally. Am I having a full-blown existential breakdown? There’s a chance, yes. But it just seems so counter-intuitive. Our early adulthoods are so ripe with possibility that surely we should be loving the quarter-life; this chance we have to become who we want to be. But if possibilities are peaches, ready for the picking, then we’re grabbing at all of them in panic, casting them aside when we think better, and then, instead of climbing the heap to reach the choice fruit in the up-most branches, we’re being suffocated under the weight of our mulchy indeciveness. Or whatever.
So why the crisis? A quick Google search on the topic suggests that large numbers of twenty-somethings experience severe stress and anxiety that they attribute to the fear of not doing enough with their life; of missing out on something indefinable. In a nutshell, FOMO. We have real bad FOMO.
If the mid-life crisis is the realisation that you have more time behind you than ahead of you, and that it passed by in a flash, and that too much of it was spent poorly, then I guess the quarter-life crisis is the fear that you’re hurtling towards that eventuality and nothing can stop you. It’s the realisation that you’re heading down a path, and you’re not sure if you chose it or how many junctions you’ve already missed. Because you probably weren’t ready for any of this, and how could you be? Being a kid feels so much like you’re waiting around for this transformation, that of course you’re thrown for a loop when there isn’t one. No coming of age moment. No kid skin to shed. No chrysalis. This is it; this is your life. It will never suddenly start to feel like you think it should, so take what you have now and make what you can of it.
So yes, sure, the quarter-life crisis is a thing, along with the thing we catch at forty, the thing we catch at thirteen, and I’m sure the very serious thing we endure at eighty, on that bleak and fright-worthy home stretch. Crisis is, I think, just living. Maybe the moment when you suddenly feel like you’ve arrived – the moment the crisis is over – is the same one in which you die.
But all the same, I’ve decided I like the idea of the quarter-life crisis, and this is why: when I look around me, almost everyone else seems so sure. This is another unfavourable side-effect of living: that most of the time, you’ll be convinced you’re some kind of freak. But call your freakishness a quarter-life crisis and suddenly you’re not so weird. Yes, other people feel these things, so much so that we went and named it. It’s almost a little curative. Maybe you’re anxious and afraid, and maybe you don’t know where you’re headed from here, but you’re doing fine. Or at least other people are fucking up too and that’s basically the same thing.