An Open Letter to Independent Schools

I am 22 years old and I am writing this from a private psychiatric hospital in the middle of London.

There are many elements that contribute to the state of my mental health. It’s the age old concept of nature and nurture. But there is a common theme that I keep finding myself and others going back to in the repetitive and constant courses of therapy that I find myself in. At the age of 11, I went to a big private all-girls school. I didn’t pass the 11+, some see this as surprising as I am the daughter of a teacher. Some might think that it’s not surprising seeing as the 11+ eight years ago was a paper made up of bizarre verbal reasoning questions that didn’t seem to apply to any real life situations.

Due to my early life failure at the age of 10 I wasn’t eligible for the local grammar schools, with a parent that worked in the education sector and the other in a successful city job they made the decision to send me to the private school. I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that I also wanted to go. From the outside it was a shiny new school, where all the girls were perfect, blonde, well-rounded individuals who played sports at the weekends and achieved academically during the week. There were amazing facilities, a house system which seemed to solve the pastoral problem and a record number of A*s at GCSE and Oxbridge candidates.

After getting through the entrance exams, a day of 11+ type papers, I found myself in the deep end at an extremely competitive and highly intense environment. I remember little to no sympathy for the fact that we were just 11/12 year olds straight out of primary school. There was an expectation that we would work hard, do our hour and a half of homework a night, read around the subject and spend our spare time competing in Lacrosse, so that the school could retain the national title for U12 Lacrosse. Lessons were constant berratings by different teachers, all insisting that their subject was the most important.

Life continued like that for the next 6 years of my life, intense days of school from 8:30 until 4:30 with compulsory ‘voluntary’ clubs at lunch time. I achieved what the school claims that it can get for you. I have an amazing set of GCSEs and an equally good set of A-Levels, but being in that environment for my formative teenage years was detrimental.

The single sex education delayed my ability to mature emotionally. Being starved of the male part of the society only intensified the bizarre environment that independent schools nurture. With boys becoming mythical creatures, we only had what the environment told us boys would like. It was never mentioned that anything else apart from hetrosexual love could exist. There was very much a culture of fitting into the private school mould, or how else will you get into university and meet a rich man who can care for you for the rest of you life? Intelligent pretty girls, got intelligent pretty husbands, who made lots of money so you could have bread intelligent pretty children to go to private school. Writing it down makes it feel almost eugenics like. I didn’t wear a pair of trousers for the full 7 years I spent at the school. There simply wasn’t the options. I had a talent for design and would have loved the opportunity to do resistant materials and woodwork. But that’s not a girls place. All a very outdated way of thinking, but it’s worked for the last 200 years, why not now?

When I got to sixth form all of a sudden boys and girls where in same classes. Having had the last 5 years being conditioned into what boys wanted, it was bizarre to now share a space with them and interact with them daily. The boys had also spent 5 years in a similar environment, with the pressure and the expectations. But that was also 5 years of built up male testosterone but none of the social skills to go with it. They behaved appalling. There were numerous cases of unwanted sexaul behaviour from the boys to girls. But they were never told off, girls would either be reprimanded for wearing a black t-shirt bra underneath a white school shirt or the phrase “boys will be boys” was used as an excuse. This is unbelievable in a time some would call a “gender revolution”.

In highsight I suffered a nearly manic episode during my last years of A-levels. Being at school for the full day and then spending 3 hours a night doing maths homework over and over and over again. The pressure to be perfect was unbearable. I worked at weekends, never having a day off. There had to be value in everything I did, or what else could I put on my UCAS personal statement? Reflecting and writing this down it all seems very unhealthy, but at the time it was considered a work ethic. There was competition amongst girls to see who could maintain the best social life and work the hardest. Who could be the one that all the boys fancied and still had the brains to back it up. The phrase “well-rounded individual” was thrown around almost every day of my education. The only thing that it taught me was how to be high-functioning with a mental health problem.

Being an inpatient at a psychiatric ward, being surrounded by other individuals suffering with all sorts of mental health problems, being in numerous groups where all aspects of life are discussed its alarming the number of people from all different backgrounds and ages that talk about similar experiences. Highly intensity private school experiences in the twee middle class Britain. There are people here who are supposed to be doing their A-levels but find themselves under section because they’d rather die than achieve the lofty heights that schools expect from them. There are people here who left school 15-20 years ago who still speak of the horrors and tourture that their education put them through. There are also people who have fond memories of their schools. Although, in my experience, they are few and far between.

I only left school 4 years ago. I can’t imagine the pressure that’s put on girls now with Instagram. But I don’t think that’s the only factor in the environment that these kids are growing up with now. The fact that there is such a varied amount of people here of all ages and nationalities that have a similar story shows that today’s society isn’t only to blame.

There are teenagers in here who are supposed to be taking their A-levels and enjoying being of drinking age but are instead crumbling under the pressure that schools put on them. The fact that this hospital has an overflow ward that fills up at the beginning of the school year and during exam season shows that this is a long standing epidemic.

Mental health is becoming less stigmatised, anxiety and depression is talked about more freely. We need to take some serious actions to support the children going through the private education system now. At no point should their grades contribute to their sense of self. What does it matter if they miss one piece of homework? Why does it matter if they didn’t go to uni? Why is there this expectation that the outside world won’t accept anything less than perfect? Why is there no value in vocational skills? Why aren’t we all allowed to have one element in our life that makes us happy, regardless of achievement, race, height, weight etc etc? Why aren’t we valuable unless we achieve?

I write this for all the parents and kids that are considering an elite private school. Please ignore the glitz and glam that private schools use to get you in. Their facilities are amazing and it’s easy to be dazzled by the number of students who get into Russell Group universities, but ask yourself at what cost? Although independent schools are registered charities, they are definitely for-profit organisations. My experience is that you, or your child is just a number. These old-fashioned institutions do not necessarily have you or your child’s best interests at heart. Reputation and image is a lot more important to them.

I have no solution for this problem, just a story of warning. I remember an article coming out about the school being sued for being the root of anxiety and depression for an ex-student. The case was dropped because the person suing was told it would cause more harm to his mental health then good. While I’m not going to sue the school, I feel that I am not the only one with a story like this. There needs to be a change to the private educational system, more value put on a sense of self, and ultimately time for these age old institutions to acknowledge that the system that might have worked in the past may not anymore.

Scared

22nd August

I’m really scared. Really really scared.

I don’t know if I’m unwell or if I’ll always be like this. They say there’s no such thing as normal but who’d have thought being crazy would be so torturous.

2nd of September is when I have the psychiatrists appointment. Who knows what he’ll come out with. In some ways I hope its something, in other ways not. If I have a label then at least I won’t know that I’m not just a self-absorbed narcissist who’s made this all up to make herself interesting. But if this is a real thing, not just a phase of depression or growing pains then will I have to live like this for the rest of my life.

If I have to live like this for the rest of my life do I want the rest of my life to be any longer.

I’ve never been an easy person to be around, all my life my mothers called me difficult. While I’m fully aware that my family love me, I can’t help feel that they would’ve preferred a slightly less high maintenance daughter. The sort that went quietly off to university rather than the one they found crying on the kitchen floor in her dressing gown at 8:30 in the morning. Everyone tried to be both sympathetic and get on with their morning routine.

As for friendships, I try not to communicate too much with them, if they decide they don’t need me in their life and drift away I can’t blame them. The series of “weird” behaviour I’ve displayed since my early teens would be enough to send anyone running.

The biggest thing is that I don’t want to be a burden. It’s not fair on anyone else. This is something of mine that is mine alone and theres no reason why anyone else should have to deal with my rollercoasters. I think that’s why I don’t pursue romantic relationships, it’s not fair. So many years of one night stands telling me that I’m lucky they tolerate me, kind of makes sense. I don’t believe love is unconditional.

Regardless, my life is on the brink of changing forever, which ever way that may be. An old one night stand recently got back in touch, he’s one of the only people that I know who is on a similar wave length to me. After having a relatively honest conversation he told me that killing yourself is “cheating and not fair”. I suppose those are words to live by.

Snow

1st August

I wake up every day and wish I was happy. Its safe to say that this time round the Citalopram isn’t quite as effective as it was the first. At least that’s another a solution to a problem that doesn’t quite work.

Not that I help myself particularly. I’ve spoken before about how I don’t go on holiday, this year is no different. I find myself home alone for the next two weeks. I haven’t been on holiday with my parents since I was 17. Lugging myself round Europe in a camper van with them is a little bit claustrophobic. Normally by this time of year I’ve got a summer fling to distract myself with. I’m normally taking full advantage of my free house and memory foam mattress. This year though is very different, although I’ve tried my best to break my summer of celibacy it’s not exactly working. It doesn’t help that Netflix has released some crackers recently and I’m more invested in binge watching than making small talk with a boring geography graduate.

Even the dogs managed to go on holiday this year, leaving me truly alone. I didn’t realise how lonely it’ll be. Tomorrow is my day off, somehow I doubt that I’ll speak to anyone. This isn’t the first time I’ve lived on my own. For the last bit of the winter I lived by myself. I really enjoyed it. My own space, my own food, my own terms. But I also had people all around me. People I enjoyed spending time with just two doors down. Theres a big difference between being in a house on your own and a flat in a block of friends by yourself.

I’m finding it really hard to make friends this summer. My old school friends are all in semi-permeant relationships. I struggle with most of my colleagues, they’re not bad people and can be fairly amusing to work with but I doubt I’ll make the effort to stay in touch. There are various old work colleagues and childhood friends that suggest trips to the pub or coffee. I can’t really face it. I don’t want to have to explain my life choices to them anymore. There was one school friend (never worked a day in his life) who told me I could work as his secretary after he finishes his masters and starts his million pound job (that doesn’t exist). I nearly hit him.

I’m really missing snow.

All the netflix shows that I’m more committed to than human relationships show characters in friendship groups. People need people. I find it so hard. I spend my whole day talking to fake boring people the last thing I want to do is go and sell myself to more fake boring people, therefore making myself fake and boring.

For me, snow is friends, and although next season will be new people and I’ll be even further away from that influx of 18/19 year olds on their first season. It’ll be nice to have people around with common ground. There will be old faces as well, I’m sure.

Obsession to Depression

June 14th

Days off snow: 70

Days til Snow: 114

So I went. I did it. Or rather my dad did. My fathers compulsion to fix things meant I found myself on the sweaty sweaty tube being shipped off to a prestigious Harley Street clinic.

I went through the NHS for my first round of therapy. It was a group session in a dusty corner of a local surgery. Everyone was older than me apart from this one kid that was more in love with the idea of having depression than rather suffering from a real stress disorder. There where two CBT therapist, one had a strong spanish accent and while I think she was capable I struggled to keep up with how fast she spoke. The other one was younger and I’m pretty sure I’d matched him on tinder at some point in my long and partially successful tinder career. He refused to make eye contact and seemed nervous all the time. We where given work books to work through. I found it all a little bit patronising and useless. Although I am grateful that my GP got me a place on the course and that things like that are available to me.

CBT fundamentally works by changing the way you think and how your brain is wired. When you learn, you learn by build paths and connections in your brain. The idea behind CBT is that you build paths in your brain to trick you into positive thinking. CBT also gives you coping strategies when you find yourself down and anxious.

As far as I’m aware its a well respected part of psychology for people suffering from stress disorders with no previous history of mental health problems. It was explained to me that it would be extremely effective if you where having panic attacks before exams or struggling with grief. Which I suppose I was when I first went through it. But now its been nearly three years and it has only got worse.

So, anyway, Harley street is beautiful. By the way, If you ever find yourself in Marylebone (good luck Americans/Canadians pronouncing that) go and have a wander around. It’s a lot nicer than Kensington/Mayfair. The clinic was a lot smaller than I imagined. It was just a small office in the bottom of a townhouse. It was obviously very expensive and I kept getting really distracted by the feet walking outside just above the psychologist lady. I was originally put off by her, she reminded me of the mothers of girls I went to school with who’d always look down on me for my scruffy appearance.

She asked me questions that where difficult to answer, and I talked for almost an hour. I tried to make her laugh and she did every now and again. For the last 10 minutes she explained what she thought what was going on, while it wasn’t a full diagnosis, I’ve got to go to another session.

Basically, since I’ve been a teenager, I’ve lived in boom-bust cycles, where I’ve pushed myself beyond my limits in order to achieve. I then knacker myself out, forget that I’m human, working to the absolute limit and then I crash. The bigger the achievement the bigger the crash. It was basically a combination of perfectionism and low self-esteem. Striving to be the absolute best, feeling that it isn’t the best and then putting yourself in a pit, feeling like you aren’t achieving and sending yourself off on another mission to achieve. It’s ultimately not sustainable. As the achievements increase my pits get lower.

The question is why am I like this, do I have low self-esteem and obsessions with success because I am on the autistic spectrum. It would explain my lack of permanent friendships, but then again I don’t find it hard to read social queues and am an effective communicator (I’d like to think anyway).

Or is it something different, the boom bust cycles are something that is associated with Bi-polar. It would explain a lot in someways. When I told my mum she wasn’t in the slightest suprised. Theres definitely been periods in my life where, looking back, I’ve felt manic. Maybe not full on mania, even the psychologist said it would be a lower level of bi-polar, such as bi-polar 2,3 or 4. It would also explain why I find it difficult to relate to other people who suffer from clinical depression. I can feel myself going manic now, I’ve become obsessed with my appearance, consider the 40 hours of work a week on my feet not enough. I also want to get back on the horse, get another job, study a degree and nail next years season. The crash will be inevitable. Maybe it’s never been noticed before because the mania has been disguised as ambition. It would also explain why I can either sleep for 19 hours in a row or find myself learning about war journalism at 2am. The vibrance and the intelligence I credited to anxiety could be hypomania. The fact that citalopram hasn’t been working as well as it did last time could also be a sign of it.

Although I haven’t been formally diagnosed and there’s a whole other session to get through of kicking up dust to actually realise what’s going on. It’s nice to know. Its nice to know that the depression I experience isn’t forever and its not just me being a pathetic little rich girl.

I think about death all the time/ Do you think that’s morbid?

7th July

Days off snow: 63

I think about my own mortality a lot. I think about what life would be like without me, how it would effect my parents and brother, who would look after the horse, if I’d leave, leaving an impact. I also think about things like what songs I’d like played at my funeral or that I’d want to be buried rather than cremated. Not sure I’d go for that whole black thing either. I don’t know wether this is normal or not. I remember being a lot younger and being able to picture myself in the future. Now I struggle on ,good days to see past 6 months and on bad 24 hours.

I’ve never really admitted to anyone that I have suicidal thoughts. It worries me that I’d get sectioned. Sometimes I do have an overwhelming desire to die. At the beginning of winter I definitely got so low that I asked my accommodations officer to give me a roommate because I worried that if I was living by myself that I would kill myself. I’ve compared severe depression and anxiety to having terminal illness before.

My Grandmother died when I was 19. I’ve got a whole series of essays and letters that I wrote around this time if anybody is interested in the aftermaths of cancer. My dad works with in the field and we ended up watching a documentary about T-cells. Its a cutting edge genetic treatment for liquid tutor cancers that are notoriously difficult to treat, like Leakeumia. While the treatment is gruelling and difficult it does have positive effects for some, both long and short term. Some of the patients in the trials find themselves cancer free for over 2 years and other just a matter of months. How the less successful patients see their inevitable death is incredibly interesting. In some ways I can completely relate. I have the same thoughts. The only thing is I have a choice where as they don’t. Or I like to convince myself that I do. In reality I really don’t know.

I think the desire to die does come with some relief though. It limits your fear. Maybe that’s why I’m successful at skiing, although I do get scared. I think I’d rather go skiing a gnarly line than being hit by a bus. At least there will be a story behind it. In the documentary “Free Solo” Alex Honnold also expresses similar sorts of feelings. Especially with regards to people in his life. He considers his death just something that’ll happen in their life.

While the drugs regulate my mood I find myself in a slow but steady decline rather than a constant grey. I don’t really know what to do about it, I find the side effects worse than last time. Frequently having nightmares and finding myself constantly tired. I’m supposed to start therapy soon but I’m slightly skeptical about CBT and find myself too nervous to call up and book the appointment.

Summer Holidays

1st July

Days off snow: 57

I haven’t been on a summer holiday in 5 years. For someone who moves every 4/6months I don’t travel particularly well. Theres a lot of anxiety based around holidays. Mainly because, like pretty much everyone else, I hate my body. Beach holidays are for the beautiful people and that, I certainly am not.

I’m 5ft3 (161cm) and more torso than leg. Its not a great a start really. Not particularly well proportioned. My feet are pretty fucked from being in ski boots for three seasons. My toenails are yellow and black and there are some pretty gnarly bone spurs on my arches and heels from where the liners have packed down and its rubbed in the same place continuously. I don’t dare let anyone go through the horrors of giving me a pedicure. Kind of rules out anything open toed. Vans aren’t beach wear.

As for my legs. They’re short. I’ve had ex boyfriends with longer arms than my legs. Depending on the time of year depends on the thunderous-ness of my legs. I can put on muscle pretty easily on my legs apparently. At the height of the ski season my thighs look like a baby body builders bicep. While I appreciate their strength, its not exactly what you’d call beautiful and it means I get to wear fat people trousers. Despite having a relatively strong core (thank you horses and skiing) my mid section is pretty flabby. I seem to carry most of my weight on my hips and middle. Giving that classic tyre look. Bikinis have been a no no for as long as I can remember. I think I once braved one in California when I was 16, not worth going through that again. In fact as I’ve got older swimwear of any sort is something I’ve tried to avoid, as well as anything super short, cropped tops and anything that shows too much of my back.

I’ve only ever been called beautiful once, and that was by a one night stand. It would be easier to explain what drugs he wasn’t on that the drugs he was. Theres a weird subtle Asymmetry to my face that rules out being traditionally pretty. I was told when I was 17 that I would be pretty if there wasn’t something wrong with my face, he just couldn’t put his finger on it. I have a weird pre-chubby jaw line, that in my old age will almost definitely turn into a turkey neck. Theres already a wrinkle forming on my forehead and loads of welts and scars all over my face and body where I’ve picked at my skin.

Two days ago I was told that I must find it really easy at halloween, because my hair is so wild. While they are not wrong, my hair is pretty wild. It’s a still a relatively offensive thing to say. I’ve even had an assistant in a hairdresser comment on my hair, asking if I know what a brush is. Anyone with vaguely curly hair in -20 will tell you that brushing it dry is a recipe for even more frizz than normal, and breakage.

I admire body positivity. I really do. For everyone out there that wears what they want despite not being a conventional size or shape I take my hat off to you. You have confidence that I do not. Theres a lot of adverts with different shapes and sizes in bikinis. While its a good thing that there are steps being taken normalise real female bodies, I do have a minor issue with them advertising an unhealthy lifestyle.

I’m not going to lie. In winter when I get assigned a lesson and I see someone of a larger size walking down the stairs my heart sinks a little bit. I’m being a bit stereotypical here, some of them have been fit enough and strong enough to learn to ski, but by and large, they haven’t even been flexible enough to do their own ski boots up. I then spend the next half an hour heaving them up off the snow before them giving up 2 hours short of the paid lesson.

Even though I really dislike the appearance of my body, it is functionally fit. I suppose all I’m saying is, from the point of view of someone who teaches a sport, by all means have whatever body you want, but try and be healthy. From my experience, it gets harder and harder to get fit, the less healthy you get.

Everything I know about love

Days off Snow: 49

Days on Citalopram: 4 weeks or something

Money:GBP 373.49

Tinder Matches: Who cares

I read “Everything I know about love” By Dolly Alderton on the plane back from Canada. It was extremely relatable, she’s a journalist in her early thirties that grew up in north London, not too far away from where I live now. The book is mainly based around romantic relationships she’s had since being a 14 year old on MSN to trying to navigate life as an adult who seemingly can’t commit to anyone. Again very relatable. In her late twenties the author decides that her approach to finding a boyfriend is not exactly healthy and decides to try a year of celibacy.

I’m someone who, for the last two years, has been a heavy tinder user. Not really in the search for any meaningful connections, but just so I feel a bit loved. Something too temporarily boost my hopelessly low self-esteem. I tend to use it exclusively at home and like having the fact that there are at least three boys at any one time I can text for a quick shag. Maybe because I’m young or maybe its my personality but I don’t think I’m particularly in touch with my emotions, being frequently told that I’m cold or intimidating. It’s always been pretty difficult to connect with boys other than just for sex. I rarely sleep with the same person more than three times.

Seasons are no different really, I tend not to use tinder because it’s easier to hook up on a night out. Theres no real escaping each other, there is an inevitability that you’ll probably end up going home with someone. But again there’s never really any real connection. Usually I tend to be drunk for season sex occasionally I’ll let slip that I’ve been struggling. I frequently refer to myself as nuts. Sometimes its the source of argument. This year, after a particularly drunk night out I went home with someone I’d been sleeping with fairly regularly, started a fight and ended up confessing I’d been having suicidal thoughts. It resulted in me storming out and waking up to a text the next morning confirming that he no longer wanted to be “friends with benefits”. I saw him again to apologise and he hit me with the “I was really good about it, not many boys would so good with your mental health”

I really hope that other women, or even other people in relationships get this sort of attitude when you confess your struggles. Even though I need the help of tequila to sometimes get there and I never want to you to do anything about it or feel like you’re burdened. Sometimes I just need the words out of my head. Don’t you dare make yourself out as a saint for passively sitting there and then cutting off a very very casual relationship.

Not to say all my drunk confessions have been like this. There was one occasion where I went home with a friend because my heating was broken (and -40 is very cold). We ended up having hilarious drunk sex and I admitted a suicide attempt. He then offered a joint (I declined) and after that whenever we saw each other at work he’d ask me how I was. There was no judgement or feeling of superiority. Just was nice to have a one night stand check that I wasn’t going to hang myself on a shower rail.

I’ve also ended up sober crying in someones arms after a particularly hard week, despite being so young (18) he dealt with it amazingly well. Things got weird between us later on, but I’m incredibly grateful for the maturity he showed rather than making himself out for being the hero in the situation.

I suppose tinder and seasonal relationships have been a big coping mechanism in trying to keep myself alive. It’s not particularly healthy and I feel immensely guilty for putting this on all sort of unsuspecting one night stands. Although I never want it to be anyone else responsibility other than mine, I really do appreciate all those boys who just took it.

I’m really sorry for emotionally unloading on all of you.

So, for this summer. In an attempt to get “better” I’ve decided to take a leaf out of Dolly Aldertons book (not literally) and give up boys and booze until winter starts again. Although my life feels incredibly one dimensional at the moment, just work and sleep. There isn’t the supportive friend group that Miss Alderton has. I think overall it’ll do me good in the long run.

Perfection is the Enemy of Good Enough

19th June

Days off Snow: 45

Days on Citalopram: who knows

Money: 13.83

Tinder matches: too many

I hate this false sense of perfection that everyone portrays. I can’t speak on behalf of boys (as I’ve never been one) but growing up as a girl it’s expected that we’re all flawless. No one ever talks about their flaws, they’re only mentioned in hush tones around a table at a dinner party in place of real conversation. Although flaws are something that is so inheritently human, they’re only ever portrayed in TV programs and films as villains.

Like most people my age I find myself with a mild Netflix addiction. Most of the time its just noise in the background to drown out the loneliness, I find it difficult to engage with half the crap churned out by Netflix. The stuff that actually engages me is the shows and films with truly dark and human traits. I don’t want to watch an overly shiny high school drama with shallow characters. I want to watch characters that mirror my own selfishness and narcissism.

“Fleabag” a comedy series on the BBC was written by Phoebe Waller-Bridge because she was bored of being constantly type cast as a boring, stupid, pretty girl while auditioning for shows as an actress. The protagonist is dark and twisted with all sorts of issues. She has fundamentally human traits and interacts with her siblings and parents in a way thats definitely relatable to me, and I’m sure hundreds of others. Theres no fantasy involved. Theres not escapism. I think thats what makes it side-spiltlingly funny. It’s the same with many other programs, such as “The Thick of It”, a political satire of the British parliament during the early 2000s. It’s so brilliant because it’s just loads slightly socially inept people trying to survive in a basically hopeless situation.

I recently did a Myers-Briggs personality test. Although I was quite skeptical, the result I felt was relatively accurate. Apparently I’m an INTJ, one of the rarest personality types, you can do your own research if you’re really that interested. But it explains a lot, why I find it difficult to get on with other girls, why I might appear arrogant (although I hope I don’t) and that I’m so in love with the idea of flaws. Maybe I believe that I can see through the bullshit. Maybe I can’t. I bang on about it a lot and I think maybe a lot of it is in my head, but I’m so frustrated with this obsession with perfection. A lot of it is social media driven. A lot of it is probably the human obsession with perfection.

It’s the whole reason I started this blog. I want to tell the truth. I remember feeling so disappointed when I arrived at uni. It wasn’t what was advertised to me at school. Seasons, although fun, aren’t what are advertised, nothing is whats advertised. There is so much bullshit in the pursuit for perfection.

Where I work at the moment there is a display fridge with food in. Part of my job is ensuring that it is kept stocked at all time, it looks appealing so people will consume more. Although I understand this, it results in so much wastage because we end up opening food, reducing their shelf-life in order to maintain the illusion of fresh. At the end of the day whatever we didn’t sell, gets thrown, which is a lot, because we never run down stock. Theres a same expectation that the staff always remain friendly and at the customers every whim. Again, it’s part of the industry but it neglects that staff are also people who are prone to emotions in the same way that the customers. There is no such thing as perfection.

My favourite ever thing is at the moment we have pastries and cakes in front of us on the till. Its perfect height for a small child or a big dog to steal. Nothing gives me more joy than to watch an unruly child squash a blueberry muffin in their hands, or a dog swipe a pastry. They’re just acting on instinct, I love how nuts everyone goes. The rest of the world could probably learn from them.

When I grow up

11th June

Days off Snow:37

Days on Citalopram: 19

Money: GBP15.98

Tinder Matches: 2358

All my working life I have worked in jobs which have been people facing. There has been years of experience people watching. I worked behind a bar for years, every drink had its own stereotype. Carlsberg top: builder on a weekday would probably have one or two to buffer going home to his wife. Prosecco: Giggly mum on a weekend that rarely gets time away from her bratty kids, Vodka and Coke: Underage on a Thursday night on their siblings ID trying to get as drunk as possible outside the house before going to the local student night.

With this new job comes a whole new set of stereotypes to judge: very busy important commuters, local shop workers who need coffee to get through their dull days, sixth formers pretending to study for their exams, first dates, dog owners that don’t actually like walking that much and my all time favourite gluten free mummies in their active wear with their bratty messy children. Of course I’m being extremely judgemental and stereotyping.

Life seems to be moving so fast all of a sudden. Its already fucking June. It feels like one day I’m going to wake up and be one of these gluten free active wear mummies. That absolutely terrifies me. All this messing around travelling the world will eventually lead to pushing some snotty nosed kid around in a push chair. Not to say that being like that is bad thing at all. I admire my parents massively. I just never want it to be me.

Saying that I’m not totally sure I don’t want kids. I just want to be significant. I’d like to achieve something and I feel very much that I’m not at the moment. Maybe because I work in a coffee shop or that I’ve just been turned down for a student loan to study a degree at the open university. I’m so frustrated that my life has stalled. It seems like skiing just isn’t enough anymore, maybe because I’ve been off snow for over a month now. Normal people have time off all the time. It’s alright. I just can not stand not achieving. I haven’t been on holiday in over 8 years because I don’t know what I would do with myself. Even having this blog is part of the whole paranoia of not being successful.

Its all just narcism really. Convincing myself that people want to read every week about how lost I am. I’m fully aware that everyone has felt like this as some point in my life. Some how it feels very lonely at the same time.

#fuckthegraduates

6th June

Days off Snow:32

Days on Citalopram: 14

Money: GBP32.16

Tinder Matches:2382

I finally got a job! In a coffee shop that pretends to be an independent local but is actually part of a larger chain. I like it, its just above minimum wage and closes at 6pm. It’s the perfect job to walk out of in 5 months time.

It does mean I’ve spent the last three days being sent into London to learn about coffee. While I appreciate that the company actually provides real training, rather than just letting a spotty teenager take great delight in teaching a 22 year old loser how to draw a heart in a latte, it has meant I’ve had to commute to Southwark everyday. Commuting is a contact sport. I’ve grown up in greenbelt north London, so the tube is not a foreign concept to me but neither is it something that I have ever used regularly. Standing on the platform at 7:15am I have never felt more out of place. Surrounded by my peers that I was once at school with I feel like a bit of a fraud in my jeans and t-shirt. Everyone else was wearing navy suits and black pencil skirts. It becomes even more apparent that, thats what I could’ve been if I stayed at university.

I dropped out of an industrial design degree when I was 19 due to a family death. In all honesty there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t hate myself for doing it. It was definitely the right decision. While I live at home I feel like I am constantly defending my choice to choose a career in skiing. Back in Canada it’s a relatively well respected sport and career but here at home I have had to explain more than once that I haven’t just spent the last 6 months in Canada on holiday. Because skiing is seen as a luxury holiday reserved for the middle classes, its automatically assumes that I’ve spent all winter in a log cabin with an open fire. Rather than the reality of a single glazed shared room in -40 and getting up at 6:30 everyday to push grizzly kids and fat adults down a hill. There seems to be a disconnect, without people like me the children my peers will inevitably have won’t learn the middle class pursuit that means they can sit on the board of the ski and snowboard society at Exeter university. (or fill the “Interests and hobbies” section of their CV to prove that they actually have a personality beyond prosecco)

It occurred to me that there are people that spend their whole adult lives getting on these trains, getting on at their favourite set of doors, barging other commuters out of the way to get through the gate that gets them closest to the escalator to run up on the left hand-side to sit at a desk all day. The same group of people do it the same thing 5 days a week and yet they have no idea who each other are. They never speak to each other but they live their whole lives with each other.

There was a design and architects studio opposite the coffee training kitchens. I couldn’t help think that’s what could’ve been if I’d stuck at the degree (or if cancer hadn’t decided to tear my family apart at that time). I can’t stand that all my friends are starting “proper” jobs. They have “proper” relationships. They’re doing the whole adult thing. I feel like I’m in a perpetual cycle of being broke and lonely. The influx teenage seasonaires continues where as I only get older. I fear that soon I’ll just become a wannabe in the skiing world.

But I’m not sure that I can live a life on a train with familiar strangers. I find it intensely frustrating and lets be honest it fuels my disgustingly low self-esteem, but I do like my choice in lifestyle and career. Even if it does mean that I forfeit long term relationships, a permanent home and a disposable income.