It’s been two years since I started documenting my job hunt and my life at home, desperately trying to become a writer in London. The gag is I actually became a writer in London. Granted, I’m making a living writing about the legal industry — something which (and I’m not scared of my boss reading this because it’s widely known) I had NO experience in before getting my job. But here we are! I’m living a version of the life I worked so hard to build, and the fact that I built it makes even the worst days a little bit better. Sometimes when it’s sunny and I’ve bought myself a coffee before work and actually taken the time to put an outfit together, I feel sort of giddy about it. I didn’t feel proud of myself for a long time, but I am proud of what I’ve done and where I’ve got to.
As always, winter has done a number on my mental health. Around October, without fail, I always seem to slip into a negative way of thinking, and if I try to override it with positivity and exuberance it just amalgamates into a kind of creepy, overcompensating mania which people quite rightly find off-putting. I see myself doing it, and what I can see is a sort of human roller coaster that’s not not enjoyable to watch, but if you look at it too long or too closely you’ll start to feel nauseous. But now it’s 2019, and it’s not pitch black at 5pm any more, and I can honestly say I’ve made through winter unscathed.
Before writing this (I still don’t know its purpose, I just found myself in an empty flat on a Saturday night and thought it would be fun to put some words out), I was looking through my old posts. I’m trying to figure out my ‘niche’ at the moment — something vaguely marketable — and am toying with things like mental health, relationships or friendships. Not life advice, obviously, that would be ridiculous, but something that people can relate to. There’s so much inspiring content out there written by inspiring, strong, diverse women that I often shy away from the idea. But one beer in and I find myself itching to join the chorus, and part of me thinks why not? Anyway, looking through my old posts I found this one about being alone, and I felt like revisiting the topic.
I did Dry January this year (to everyone’s aspersions, then disbelief, then admiration) and yes, my skin looked glowing and yes, I learned to do the plough pose in yoga, but I also felt the loneliest I’ve felt since I can remember. In the run-up to Christmas it was sort of like a booze-fuelled marathon — a sheer test of endurance trying to get through all the levels of festiveness (boss levels include office parties, catch-ups with friends you need to see before the year is over and “drinks and nibbles” which inexplicably become all nighters). You have to dodge the flu and manage not to spend your present money to win. All of this was peppered with brief love affairs and over-emotional exchanges with various people who were potentially going to be cut out of my life in the New Year, AKA people on very thin ice. So I felt, basically, like I was the opposite of lonely and really too busy to think about anything other than getting to work every day. But then it was new year, and once the hangover subsided and people gradually stopped talking about Christmas I found myself feeling lower and lonelier than I could remember feeling. It sounds cliché to even talk about because I know that a lot of people feel lonely even when they’re surrounded by people, and I was fully prepared for the hard-hitting truth that it’s just not that fun to be in a bar late on a Saturday night if you’re sober.
But the thing is, I realised that some of my friendships weren’t actually making me happy. I have a need, no doubt borne from the loss of my best friend as a teenager, to keep those around me close. Even more than that, I feel the need to seek their approval constantly. When the voices in my head are too cruel or conflicting, I summon the voices of my friends to tell me what to do. I know that this makes me seem fickle. An ex told me I didn’t have thoughts of my own because I would flip flop in and out of our relationship based on advice from friends (disclaimer: all of the advice was to flee, so maybe this isn’t a great example). I know I do have thoughts of my own, because if I didn’t I wouldn’t be a person or a writer. I do, however, rely on others too much for approval. Especially people who — and it’s strange to say this — don’t actually want the best for me. Being a person who is a) depressed, b) open about everything to a fault and c) extremely anxious means that a) often people see my openness as an invitation to criticise or offer advice, and b) I take on every criticism or piece of advice as gospel, and I take it straight to heart where it festers.
I’ve noticed a particularly toxic tendency recently where people use the fact that I’m damaged or unwell as an excuse to take the wheel. I’m talking specifically about people who see every achievement or moment of joy as an opportunity to remind me that what goes up must come down. I still get so excited when I meet someone who I’m interested in romantically that people can see the inevitable downturn straight away. They know as well as I do that I’ll get overly emotionally invested, take it too far or simply go into it with so much energy that it doesn’t have any choice but to burn out. They know it, I know it, anyone who has been within a two-mile radius of me on a Saturday night knows it.
How people see me and how they perceive my often fickle, self-centered, risky, dog-chasing-a-car behaviour is out of my control. I know this. It’s impossible to say this next bit without sounding faux philosophical so just go with it. What I have to do is carve out some sort of self-knowledge that goes beyond other people. I realised a long time ago that I’ll have to live with myself forever – and forever keeps getting longer and longer as the rest of my life stretches out before me. To tell the truth, I never thought I was worth the effort it takes to create the space I need to know that I am worth the inconvenience that being a person imposes on other people. I look on my teenage years with a kind of longing because they were awful but they were authentically awful. So much of adulthood feels contrived that I sometimes miss being able to have tantrums and live life on the edge of complete self-destruction. I struggle to exist in the parameters of other people and maybe the reason for that is that I don’t know myself yet and I need to push boundaries to know they/I exist.
Pulling this outpouring back from the brink, I’ll reiterate what I’ve said in the past with varying degrees of authenticity: I like my own company. I’ve worked hard to get to the point I’m at now. I deserve happiness, even when it’s just passing through.
Letters for Rent 