Pre-Graduation Jitters/Doubts/Worries/Apathy?

Graduating feels so different from leaving secondary school and sixth form. It's so much more lonely. Usually when you leave school, there is a last day, a finale. Uni isn't like that. There's no closure. It's just a long process of being in limbo.

You come to the end of your final semester, the last seminar, but you're still yet to face exams or coursework. Then you embark on a month of horrid exam preparation or coursework all-nighters. Then you have another month of waiting for results. After that, you wait for your final award to be ratified. Then you are bombarded by e-mails about graduation and you're ultimately just confused. Apart from the few friends you have on your course, there's no collective moment where you know everything has come to end.

I remember leaving primary and secondary school. There were hugs and lingering goodbyes. Right now, I haven't experienced any of that. I feel numb. I know there are things I should be feeling- nervous, excited, sad about endings, hopeful etc- but I'm more anxious than anything. I just want it to be over. I don't feel sure about anything.

I know that this is all in my head. I know that if I told people what I am feeling, they would tell me it's normal. Everyone is scared. Everyone is anxious. No one knows what they are doing.

But I'm not sure that it's enough.

It's not enough to know everyone is finding it hard.

I want to stop finding things hard.

And I think that's what makes it all the more difficult. Graduating is another milestone achieved and yet I feel like nothing has changed for me. I can see posts on Facebook where distant acquaintances and friends reminisce and ponder on the most rewarding and life-changing three years of their life. Instead, I look back and I find it hard to see where I've grown. I know that if anyone is reading this (who isn't me), they're thinking that I'm feeling sorry for myself.

"Of course in three years you've achieved something!".....you're probably shouting at me right now. You and the rational side of my brain are in agreement.

I think graduation for me is finding the ability to face the past three years and accept that I have changed.
It means being less hard on myself.
It means realising that there is time to make the progress I wanted to make, but haven't.
It means looking forward and not staying in a slump.

Of course, this is all easier said than done.

T

BEDJ/A*

*Blogging (sort of) everyday in July/ August

The aim for this blog was always to write. There was no specific writing goal. I just wanted to write things. Anything really. 

It's like Casey Neistat said recently in a video- "The only think between you and achieving your dreams is doing it". 

With uni and life and the usual excuses, I haven't been writing. On or offline. That makes me sad. So, I decided to just start writing. I've posted over the last few days but truthfully, they are pieces I wrote a while ago. I think I've been trying to ease myself into it. 

For the next few days I'm going to attempt journal-style posts. It may work. It may not. But I'm going to try. 

Right now, at the stage of life I'm in, trying seems to be the best foot forward. 

So....

Here are a few thoughts I've been having recently:

• I've just finished watching BBC's 'The Outcast'. It was a beautiful drama that made me think about trains and journeying. As someone who loves the London Underground I've always loved trains and the experience of movement. There's always this particular feeling I have when standing on a platform. It's like you're simultaneously significant and integral to the crowds of people waiting for the next train, and yet you, like every one person in that crowd are no one. I'm not sure if that makes sense but I guess what I'm saying is that train stations are a place that always resonate metaphorically for me as places of progess or lagging, depending on your perspective that day. The show made me think about childhood, adulthood and the liminal space in between. It made me think about the complex relationship between being okay and being good at hiding you're okay. It made me think about how much when we are children, we change in so many ways, and yet in other ways, we never change at all. 
  
  
  *deep breath* 

• I'm graduating next week and I haven't really been able to look someone in the face and say the words- 'I'm graduating'. 

• I have so much love for 'The West Wing'.... re-watching series one at the moment.

• I can't tell if me being a private person is just another way of saying I'm a coward. 

• How are we supposed to keep up with news from around the world and live as functional human beings? I recognise this is a problematic point, that it allows for complacency, and that it is a pathetic excuse for being willfully ignorant but it's something I think about anyway...

Until tomorrow...

T

'Bouquet'

Mum gave birth today. But my new little brother or sister is dead. He/she was extracted as lumps of congealed flesh. 

In pieces. 

When mum found out a few days ago that the baby was coming eight months early, she said she wanted to be at home. “I’m not going to the hospital. I’d rather it happen naturally.”

Over the last few days we have been waiting. Today was the day. There wasn’t much we could do. Mum spent a lot of the time in the bath room. She called out every so often when she needed help. Her voice was fragile, but mostly she sounded the same. Firm. In control. She gave dad a list. 

Towels, sheets and towels. 

That’s when I knew the baby was coming.

Soon she bled so much that she passed in and out of consciousness. It was me who called the ambulance. They took ages coming. Mum kept bleeding. I don’t remember anything more vividly than the smell. It was the smell of rotting life. Now I know what death smells of. It’s rank.

Mum was rushed to hospital in the ambulance, whilst I scrubbed the bathroom clean. I could see a small sea of red liquid floating in the bottom of plastic bags that dad hadn’t moved yet. I looked in the opposite direction as I picked them up. I needed a big bag for disposal. Then I proceeded to disinfect.

As the smell of ‘’bouquet’ disinfectant overpowered the pungent smell of death I thought about the irony. People tend to deliver flowers to mothers when they deliver their baby. But mum didn’t deliver a baby today. She delivered fragmented limbs, flesh that wasn’t quite flesh, bits and pieces of a human being. What would they give her?

'Curtains'.

Every evening, at precisely 6pm, Mrs Rogers closes her curtains. She is an old woman who lives alone. No one on Argyll Street knows her history. She seems to have lived on the street forever. The residents of Argyll Street all agree that they do not like Mrs Rogers. She has a perpetually sour expression and scowls at little children. During the day, while the curtains are open, Mrs Rogers can be seen standing, peering through her window. She has a sharp and penetrating expression when she stares.  It is safe to say that everyone walks past 67 Argyll Street swiftly; avoiding eye contact with the petite old woman they can feel glaring at them. They’ve named her ‘The Suburban Mad Woman’. Children grow up on Argyll Street being taught that Mrs Rogers is a bad woman who they should not talk to. At 6pm every evening, the residents of Argyll Street exhale softly in relief. The children are allowed to play outside awhile if it’s not too dark, and the adults speculate about what she does when the curtains close.

Today, Mr Singh who lives to the left of Mrs Rogers, believes she’s a ghost who’s haunting the house.

‘She’s waiting to take her revenge. Once she has it she’ll be gone,’ says Mr Singh to Mr Roberts, his neighbour on his left.

 ‘Oh no, Gulpreet, she’s not a ghost. I think she’s working for MI5.’

‘MI5?’ Max, Mr Roberts’ son is a sceptic. He agrees Mrs Rogers is weird but that is where his assumption ends.

‘Come on son, she lives her life just standing by that window.’

‘I agree with your dad Max. There are days when I see her and I feel a sense of dread’. Gulpreet shivers. Max, who cannot believe these are two grown men sighs and walks off. The two neighbours continue speculating. As Max walks indoors, Mrs Porter who has been peering through her blinds in the house opposite strolls towards them. The two men hold back a sigh.

‘Hello chaps. Fine evening it is isn’t it?’

‘Oh yes, Marjorie. A very fine evening indeed.’

‘Extraordinarily fine,’ adds Mr Roberts.

‘I happened to see you both talking so thought I would come and join. Is this about the neighbourhood watch?’ 

‘Neighbourhood watch?’ Mr Singh, who is President of the Neighbourhood Watch Committee smiles to himself. ‘I’m afraid you’re mistaken Marjorie, the committee meeting takes place next Thursday.’ Marjorie feigns surprise. 

‘Yes, next Thursday. In the town hall.’ adds Mr Roberts pointedly.  ‘You’ve just stumbled on some neighbourly conversation that’s all.’

‘Oh, how silly of me to forget! Yes yes, I do remember now. Next Thursday it is. Sorry to disturb you.’ Mrs Porter turns around with a grimace and totters back home. The two men agree to continue their conversation later and retreat into their respective homes. It is now 6:15 pm.

Paulina and Barry, two lawyers who also live on Argyll Street take the 5:30 train from Willingham Central every day after work. Their train arrives at West Argyll Station at 6:10pm. Their walk home takes them past Mrs Rogers’ home at the centre of the street.

‘Mrs Rogers has pulled the curtains then.’ Paulina takes a quick look as they walk past. She glances at the time.

‘Hmm. I suppose she needs to block out the light while she’s stirring her cauldron.’

‘Or stabbing her voodoo dolls.’

‘Or digging underground tunnels into each of our homes so she can murder us in our sleep.’

Both Paulina and Barry chuckle. They stop to cross the road.

‘I wonder if anyone really believes this stuff.’ Barry looks at Paulina and they both turn back. They stare at her window. It is almost as if they expect to hear the sound of drilling, the chanting of a curse or the stabbing of needles into cotton. There is no strange sound. Just the sound of trees rustling in the evening breeze and birds tweeting in the distance. The pair turn away from her window and cross the road. For the rest of their walk home they do not speak.

This is but a glimpse into the opinions of a few residents of Argyll Street. There are other rumours that spread every so often about Mrs Rogers too. Between the time of 6pm and 5am when the curtains are closed, the residents of Argyll Street speculate endlessly. It has become a community project. Mrs Rogers knows. She knows they gossip about her. She does not address their rumours or assumptions.

What is interesting is how wrong they all are. They are so very wrong about Mrs Rogers.  I am sure you are now curious about what happens behind the curtains between 6pm and 5am every day.

Well, I can say this much- if I was a resident of suburban Argyll Street, I would be more concerned with the goings on behind number 23.

Now, there’s a story.

Reasons I love 'The West Wing'

• The script is incredibly witty and sophisticated. Brilliant one-liners. Great connection between cast members. Amazing amazing amazing writing...... Did I say amazing?

• Although the show deals with American politics (which as a British person I definitely am not familiar with), the storylines always feel accessible. I think this is partly due to the way information is communicated between the White House Staffers. As news travels around the West Wing, the audience is given the opportunity to understand the plot more.

• Nowadays, Hollywood seems to glamorise politics. 'The West Wing' definitely does NOT do this. Glamorise is perhaps the wrong word. What I mean is this: politics and elections are always enveloped in scandal, intrigue and conspiracy. In 'Scandal' for instance, there is a top-secret government organisation, the President of the United States is unfaithful to his wife, the President's Chief of Staff is embroiled in questionable activity, there is an instance of election-rigging and secrets are constantly being dug up then buried again. It's an endless cycle of shock and awe. With 'The West Wing', the mundane running of the country is enough to drive the show along. The show doesn't rely on shady backroom deals and grand plots to overthrow the government. I can't tell you how many times I've been watching an episode, expecting a characters will reveal that he/ she has been bugging an office or has secret footage capturing the enemy in the act. It is extremely refreshing to watch a show and experience the nitty gritty of running a country. That's not to say I'm naiive. I realise that the show is in many ways overly optimistic about politics, but generally the show feels authentic. It reminds me of 'The Office' in that the humdrum nature of life allows for more focus on human relationships.

• As a continuation of the previous point, I love that romantic relationships in 'The West Wing' are not reduced to random romps in the Rose Garden. For instance, I loved the way C.J handled her relationship with Danny. If it was a Hollywood romance, in the first season there would have been a moment with them standing in the rain, and one of them would be giving the other one an ultimatum. Generally, shows make romantic relationships the be all and end all. It would be incredibly reductive and unrealistic. Another great relationship has to be Donna and Josh. If their relationship was written in traditional Hollywood fashion, their relationship would have progressed further a lot quicker and there would have been a lot more heartbreak. Instead, I really appreciated how much their friendship seemed always to come before anything else. And the fact that Donna was not Josh's assistant when they finally got together was important because it meant they were equals and I love that she points that out to him. I love that Donna is the one that takes the reins after being his assistant for so long. Otherwise I think there would be a real danger of imbalance. And how can I forget the President and the First Lady- a great example of a turbulent but strong and fulfilling marriage. There are so many moments where their ability to work together whilst being independent and true to themselves is inspiring and moving. There is an equality in their relationship that is humbling and beautiful to watch.

• As well as the romantic relationships. friendships in 'The West Wing' are incredibly varied and complex- in the best way. Toby, Josh and Sam are a great example. There is brotherly tough love with the most brutal honesty. That scene where Toby confronts Sam about Laurie is so well constructed. I love how the characters are all so unflinchingly themselves. Leo and Jed are the epitome of bromance. I love that the first time we hear Leo call POTUS by his name is when he reminds the President of their aim in getting into the White House, just after Mandy's report becomes public. It was extremely powerful and as a viewer I could feel that honesty coming from Leo in that scene. And finally, the napkin- 'Bartlett for President'- is an amazing motif throughout the show. It doesn't get more symbolic than that!

• Speaking of Leo, I have so much respect for Sorkin for not glamorising (yes, I've used that word again) his alcohol and valium addiction. The show gave viewers insight into the difficulties of being an addict but I appreciate how the addiction is just a part or element of Leo's life- it's not his entire life. Leo's line 'I don't understand people who have just one drink' hit me hard when I heard it the first time. It's so incredibly honest and it made addiction easier for me to understand. Sorkin's writing just does that for you!

• The minor characters. I don't mean to use the word minor in a way that diminishes the characters I'm referring to. I think Sorkin is the king of the minor character. Margaret is the best example of this. Her randomness and oh my god, that moment when Margaret breaks the internet by sending out an email to the entire White House. That sums it up. TV gold.

There are soooooo many other reasons why the show is amazing but these were a few of my personal favourites!

T

Third Year.

This post is not groundbreaking. It will not reveal anything the internet has not encountered before. But I have been thinking these things for a while and writing this all somewhere feels necessary somehow.

That was a very long-winded way of saying university has ended. It is cliche, so utterly cliche that I am going to say that third year is (was- I must use the past tense now) hard. I knew going into this year that it was my last year of university. I spoke to a tutor at the beginning of the year about the fact that the first semester was sort of tough, knowing in my head that this was something everyone was whining about. I sat there telling her that third year was harder than I thought it would be- which was true in a way, because I can generally rationalise things and recognise that if things are a bit difficult it's because I am procrastinating and not doing the work; the work is not necessarily difficult in itself. But despite saying all this to her, I sat there exasperated with myself. I felt this feeling of stupidity because I was just another twenty-something in her last year of uni, talking about how it was 'slightly difficult'.

I'm not sure if that all makes sense.

Essentially, I knew of the cliche, I had watched the cliche unravel before me, amongst friends of mine who graduated last year. I knew and expected that this year I would encounter the cliche. But I think deep down I thought it would be an external encounter. I didn't think it'd be an internal encounter, a personal one. I didn't think it would affect me. I never realised that I would become privy to this cliche, that I would hop on that train to loony town. It's a confusing and momentous time all at once. You feel like you're moving on and moving backward which only stops you from moving at all.

I never expected it.

Truly.

But then I experienced my first all-nighter. I think that's when I knew. I don't do all-nighters. I don't pretend to be amazing at organising myself, but I am good at getting things done. When I know there's a deadline, I make sure I meet it. But this time, something changed. I had things done, but it felt different. I entered the cliche. I jumped on the train to loony town. I stayed awake all night finishing my essays and watched the sky change from night to day outside the attic window. I heard the gentle breathing (and violent snoring) of my family fill the house as I typed frantically and hopelessly. When embarking on an all-nighter, darkness surrounds you. Literally and metaphorically. It's all dark and foggy. It's hard to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Eventually, when I finished the essay, I remember being too tired to even cry. That's when third year hit me.

Now I'm getting emails about booking graduation and buying tickets and hiring gowns. There are emails about possible internships and jobs in companies x, y and z. There are emails about post-graduate courses and random-I-didn't-know-they-existed courses. Then there are emails that I should definitely be paying attention to, about preparing for my PGCE course next year. But I've just finished my degree- I'm not ready to prepare just yet. Then there are emails about things running out- like library memberships.

Everything is running out.

And there are just too many emails.



This is (was) third year. It (is) was hard. I knew third year was supposed to be hard but I didn't know it would be hard for me. It sounds arrogant, as if I think I am above it all. It's true. I was arrogant. I misunderstood. I was wrong.

Third year sucked.

It's a cliche for a reason.

x

T.

Looking backwards.

When I was 16/17, I thought that when I was a few years older, at university, I'd worry less about the things that were giving me crippling anxiety. At 16/17 I thought my older self would be braver, less troubled and her opportunities would be broadened. I thought getting older meant getting better. I thought it meant that everything that was awkward and cringe-worthy would disappear and I would forget it all. It wouldn't matter. None of it would matter. And that's what people say isn't it-'you'll look back on this period in your life and think you were crazy, there was nothing to worry about. Trust me, it gets better'. 

In some ways it's true. If I could go back I would tell my 16 year old self that things get easier. They aren't less painful but they get easier. The things I worried about back then, eventually dwindled. But life doesn't allow the blips to disappear into a void. The bloody blips keep returning. And I look back at my younger self and think, crap, that's where everything began. Emotions and feelings you thought had disappeared merely buried themselves like ants that scuttle away back under their rock when they see a shadow loom above. Events I thought would stay hidden beneath those rocks began to creep out in different forms and startle me. I did not expect the past to return. And I most certainly did not expect the past to return during a time when I was supposed to be getting older, wiser and more mature.

I suppose I am realising more and more that growing up means constantly returning to the beginning. As I move forwards I look backwards and that makes it harder to keep moving. I keep getting stuck as I remember my younger self who in many ways I envy and miss. I feel so naive and I wish I was 16 again so people could expect that of me. On the days I remember specific past versions of myself I grow melancholic and deeply sad. I want so badly to hug my past self because my present self knows how difficult the past was. My present self knows that all those experiences left residual mess behind and that the present self is still cleaning up the debris. It seems as though that is what growing up is all about- coming to terms with the past and cleaning it up, time after time. 

All I wish is that these times grow fewer. I hope that I'm not still cleaning up my old mess. I hope that I learn to lift the rock and let the ants scuttle free. I hope that I give myself room to make new mess. 

But until then I am still cleaning, still re-organising and still struggling to make the steps forward.

At least I am trying.

x

T