Here’s the prelude to my depression story. Maybe Wednesday’s can be my talking about depression days! Now there’s an idea.
So I left off with me leaving school. I decided to do the foundation art course at the local college, the one you kinda have to do if you’re going to do an art degree at university. It wasn’t a good place for me. First week we were playing with cardboard and the second week we were told to come in dressed in white. I’m a painter. I left after 4 days. I found myself a bit lost, working in the bookshop with plans to go to university to study art. I applied to university to art courses and (on a whim) philosophy courses. As time went on I started to really like the simplicity of my life. Most of my friends had left for university, all I had was working to and from work and selling books. But I was happy enough!
It didn’t last though, I got bored after a few months and I missed my friends at university. I couldn’t imagine myself working at the bookshop and being happy but I couldn’t imagine myself going to live on my own to study art. So I compromised and I took a place at a university where my 2 closest friends were to study philosophy (that university didn’t do an art course). The plan was I was going to go live with them. It was too neat and perfect!
It really was too good to true. You see, I’ve never wanted to go to university. Most young people are unshaped pieces of clay, pliable and unformed, waiting to be shaped. I was set, I had a home, I had interests, I had a personality and beliefs and I knew what I wanted and what would make me happy. But I wasn’t brave enough to say this or to acknowledge it. I did what other people thought I should do, not what I thought I should do. I hated university, hated it. I was trying to force a round peg into a square hole (I’m the peg in this metaphor) I felt lost in all those people, I felt apart, different, isolated, insecure, insignificant. There’s thousands of students at Sheffield University! Thousands! I was stuck there for weeks on end, seeing as I live in an island in the middle of the Irish Sea. I hated living in Sheffield, I missed the sea and the peace of home. I began to hate the braying students too, all comfortable ‘middle-class’ (I never knew such a thing) from the south of England. They all talked the same, dressed the same, did the same weird carefully constructed messy hairstyle and I resented that they could just take their suitcases on a Friday and get on a train and be gone.
And I was stuck there, slowly getting damaged.