Four years ago, I came to university as a fresh faced, excited teenager who thought she knew a whole lot more about the world than she really did. It was quite something, to wander the campus as a place I was going to call “home” for the next year.
I was one of those “lucky” students who got one of the spanking new rooms that had just been built, with freshly painted walls and non-vomit stained carpets, costing me a whopping £120 a week for a room, bathroom and not-fully-equipped kitchen. I thought it was heaven. My own bathroom, the biggest bed I’d ever technically owned that no one had wanked in, AND I was going to be independent, have my own routine, get fit, meet new friends. And at the end of it all, after working hard and playing harder, I’d have a first class degree that would open up a whole new world for me… I couldn’t wait. Psychology hadn’t been what I really really wanted to do, but I was good at it and found it interesting. Plus I had better prospects with this degree.
So as I waved off my slightly tearful mother and waited for my dad (who was bringing more things that I couldn’t fit in Mum’s car) I sat in my sparkly new room with some neon green walls and some beige, smelling of carpet and admiring the view of the Millennium Point from my ground floor window. This was going to be great. I’d already said hello to a new flatmate, a British-born Chinese girl who seemed nice. Knowing my dad was going to be another half-hour at least and would phone me when he got to the car park, I decided to have a wander. The campus wasn’t big after all.
After chatting to a variety of people and trying to make friends, I picked up the rest of my stuff from Dad, had a chat and a cuppa and was suddenly left all on my own.
It was a bit daunting I admit.
I felt like a kid on my first day at school, alone, no one to really talk to, in a big, scary new world that I wasn’t used to… only I wouldn’t have my mum at the end of the day to pick me up with a smile, take me home for milk and a biscuit and give me a cuddle. I think I woke up calling for her one night in that first week (Christ, this has actually made me cry a bit).
After feeling sorry for myself I organised my room a little, sorted out my internet (50 quid per term when the other accommodation didn’t pay!) and made my first ever university food. By this time everyone else in my flat had either moved in or was in the process of moving in. There were two British-born Chinese girls, who became the best of friends before you could blink, one native Chinese girl who I never saw (but certainly heard when she had her boyfriend over) and a Bulgarian, who I got on best with but still didn’t chat much to.
I didn’t really see much of any of them though, the Bulgarian was always out, the Chinese girl always in, and the cliquey Britchinks not overly interested in making friends with myself. Cool, whatever, I can meet other people.
And meet them I did. During Fresher’s Week (most of which I do not remember, especially my 19th birthday) I met new people, made new friends and joined a few clubs. For some reason I joined the LGBT society, despite being straight, but hell, I had fun for a while, and am an avid supporter of LGBT equality rights. But despite being exposed to some rather extreme (if hidden while I was about) heterophobia, the nights out were fun and some of the guys were lovely. The events were interesting, even if I did get invited to an orgy. I declined on that one.
But putting my social life aside (there was a lot of it, mostly surrounding booze and expensive student nights) I looked forward to when my lectures would start, hoping for an intense few hours a day and an essay at the end of every week to keep my mind active and a solid routine going.
What I got was a mockery of what I thought the university system would be.
I had four lectures a week. Four. One hour each. Four hours of learning a week. It was a complete joke. The lectures often consisted of 10 year old slides that hadn’t been updated with current events, bored and boring lecturers who would read from the slides in a monotone and students who were so hungover they never took anything in (I have to clarify, I never turned up hungover to an exam). Oh sure, we had background reading, but that barely took an hour an evening. And the actual work? Essays and such? We maybe got a couple a term, if we were lucky. And, surprise surprise, we didn’t get any feedback unless we specifically requested it. Even then it was pretty crappy. Sloppy and ill thought out, with little to no constructive criticism, just plain old criticism.
And one thing that really annoyed me, the form of essay writing we had been taught to use at sixth form (namely describe, study, critique) was not what lecturers wanted to see here for some reason. So my marks slipped and when I asked what kind of an essay they wanted from me, I was given such an obscure answer I couldn’t possibly recall it for you.
Then there were the exams. While the content was okay in my first year, whomsoever controlled the dates for exams seemed intent on squishing the exams as close together as is humanly possible without them overlapping each other. If there was conflict with other subjects (who also had squished-together exams) why not muddle them so everyone has more chance to revise each individual topic? this resulted in many a panicked student who had to balance revision with all their other commitments, and try to judge how early to revise without the information leaking out, or how late but still have time to revise it all. it was impossible.
As the years went by, the exam questions became more and more obscure. While I understand that reading around the subject is required, to put an exam question about something that was not covered at all in the lectures and barely mentioned in the required reading is taking the piss. Like students can remember 40 different topics in detail to recall during a two hour exam.
Anyway, I became very disheartened and demotivated by the pile of crap that was my course. Sure, there were some good lecturers who made the subjects interesting, there were some who didn’t care at all, and there were some who were so piss poor that I am still amazed at how they became a lecturer, let alone held their job.
Eventually, I stopped going to lectures. I saw no point in going somewhere that taught me nothing that I couldn’t teach myself. The lack of structure was disheartening, and the fact that most lecturers didn’t give a shit was quite upsetting.
I think halfway through my first year was when my depression really began to manifest itself. I knew there had been something wrong with me when I was younger, but I think the lack of structure, the piss-poor programme, the lack of lectures, work, and poor content all combined to make a pretty unhappy person. I stopped getting out of bed in the morning. I stopped cooking for myself, I gained weight. I drank too much, I smoked too much. I tried to work to take my mind off things but there just wasn’t the work there. Background reading was almost pointless for some topics and for weeks at a time I had virtually nothing to do.
So I threw myself into the only thing that I now enjoyed, spending time with friends. With no work to do, it was the only thing I could do to keep my brain going, aside from trying to find stimulating challenges on the internet. only they weren’t really my friends. Looking back on it, I can see now that the people I spent time with were just unpleasant bastards who took advantage of the kind person I was and bitched about me behind my back, no matter how nice I was, how funny, how whatever. Being myself got me nowhere with them. I just didn’t know it at the time.
So that was my first year really. I hoped my second year would be better, with more stimulating and challenging content and better friends.
Naturally, I was wrong (except on the friend front). Second year was just as bad as the first, with, if possible, even less work to do. Added to the fact we had even more incompetent lecturers than before, I gave up completely. I did the work that was required of me but lost all hope for a decent education. What on earth was I spending three grand a year on? Nothing. I was learning nothing. Everything in the slides I either already knew or could have easily have taught myself. I felt terrible. I never wanted to crawl out of bed, I slept until three in the afternoon. Laundry piled up and I sometimes forgot to shower. I kept drinking. I could smoke in my room so I stopped going outside for days at a time.
(I get the feeling some of you are wondering why I didn’t get a project, something to make my mind work at to get motivated again and feel better, why I didn’t man up and get on with it. I ask you to suffer depression with no clue at how to handle it or why you’re feeling like you can’t be fucked with life, that you can’t face the day, that you don’t care about anything at all and find a project. Go ahead, I’ll wait.)
So with no engagement, the depression remained, eating away at me like a bloody slug on a purple-haired lettuce. The LGBT group I was with had become even more heterophobic, going so far as to not allow me, a straight person, the right to have a voice in their committee meetings, despite the fact I was on the committee (their first and only straight member). Naturally, this was never said, but whenever I tried to say something it was discounted. I was discouraged from telling people I was straight. Now, before you bitch and cry that a straight person couldn’t possibly understand what it’s like to be an “outcast”, go fuck yourself.
But there was a shining light. I found the Rocksoc. All I can say about them is that they are an amazing bunch of people who got me through a tough time, even if they don’t know it. Looking after my own group of freshers was wonderful as well, I made some amazing friends, and could give them the support I never had from my fresher people. I loved them, the zany bunch of drunken bastards. What a wonderful bunch of wankers.
After my second year, along came my placement year. All I have to say about that was it was appalling. Atrocious. Awful. And other terrible adjectives going through the alphabet. I thought it was great in the beginning but it put me off getting a job in psychology forever. Long story short, my boss was a lazy cunt who licked the arse of the other placement student but had no time for me as I didn’t have my own car (the funny thing is about being a student is not everyone can afford a car) of all things. I was given no work, and was left to rot in an office by myself no matter how much I asked for a workload. I ended up beginning a novel just to pass the time. Watch this space.
Now I’m in my final year. The year I looked forward to because of the dissertation. Finally, a piece of work that I can choose, that I can find the research for, that I can take the credit for, that I can design. Something that will stimulate my mind that I can throw myself into. Something I can be proud of. Plus, I’m living with people I know and like so this year’s going to be amazing.
Oh boy. I was wrong again.
My final year at university. Christ alive. I was able to choose subjects that I was interested in, but unfortunately for me, there was only about three out of however many there were to choose from that were interesting and that would have benefited me in the long run. So, I was stuck with five subjects I never wanted to do and only picked because I had to. Four of the exams I’m taking very soon are pretty crap. Two are about hearing and language, something that, while interesting, have been conducted with someone with such poor English she’d be better not ever speaking again, let alone try to teach a language-based psychology module. Oh the irony! One had nothing to do with psychology at all, just nursing and politics. Only one of them is about real psychology that would have any benefit for future work. My best and favourite subjects have been and gone (and I got really good marks! Yay!)
But I digress. My dissertation.
I really wanted to do something on autism, or maybe something on people’s perception of animals due to what animals they were exposed to as children (if any). I ended up focusing on autism because it is an area I have a lot of knowledge about, plus my piss-poor placement had a lot of autistic clients, so I had some hands on experience too (granted it wasn’t much but it was better than nothing). I really wanted to do something about how autistic people are perceived in society and why this was so, and what psychological reasoning is there behind perception and what psychological ways we could change this. Alternatively, I wanted to explore autism itself more deeply; to understand what it is an autistic person experiences, thinks, feels. I believe with better understanding, we can better help those who are in need of it, instead of just assuming what benefits them. Anyway.
I proposed these ideas to my tutor, describing what I would do in detail, how I would conduct the experiments or gather the data needed, waxing lyrical about my passion for such topics.
He pretty much poo-pooed my ideas, instead suggesting I do an experiment of his own design, one that he had been doing for a few years. It was about autism, sure. And it sort of looked at what autistic people perceive. But it was nothing like my studies, it was nothing that I was interested in. I knew what he was doing straight away; he wanted me to do research for him to further his own work. Arsehole. I knew I wasn’t going to win if I protested, and knowing this guy held my most important mark for my work in his hand, I swallowed my pride and agreed to this project.
And I tried. I tried very, very hard. I tried to understand his previous work, I tried to get my head around his poorly designed experiment. I tried to be enthusiastic and did so much research. I wrote a damned good literature review if I do say so myself. But ultimately, the experiment failed because he designed it wrong and refused to tell me how to work it out.
Every time I asked him a question I was met with glares or sarcastic comments. Some were downright rude. He even told me not to ask questions! I ask you. He refused to help me. I think that because I made a single mistake at the beginning, something trivial and easily corrected, he thought I wasn’t worth his time. Oh hello depression, you’re back. How long are you staying this time?
The only person who kept me sane this whole time through was my best friend. I don’t think he actually knows how much just being there has held me together (go away tears, you’re not welcome) but it has. I’m very grateful. Thanks for putting up with my bitching and awkward crap. Thanks for everything bro. I wouldn’t be here without you.
Eventually I got my dissertation handed in, and printed off. Mum was proud of me. Now I just have a few exams to go through and it’s all over. I’ll have a fancy bit of paper and that proves I wasted four years of my life. It’s scary.
Is there anything I regret about uni? Almost all of it. I regret choosing such a crap uni. I regret not looking after myself and getting fat. I regret not knowing how to deal with my depression. I regret all the times I hurt myself. I regret not doing more. I regret not following my heart and doing what I really wanted to do.
But if I could go back in time, I’d never change it.
Well, maybe I’d not get fat, but the people I’ve met, the friends I’ve made, and the experiences I’ve had have made it all worthwhile. Sure, there are people I know that I hate, those who have taken advantage of me, who’ve hurt me, but there have been those who’ve listened, who’ve picked me up when I was down, who’ve laughed with me, made fun of me and I them, drank with me, held me when I cried. It wasn’t often but I felt liked, I felt like I was part of a group. Sometimes I even felt loved. I slept with good looking men (and some ugly ones), had some amazing dates, I managed to get the majority of my favourite pub topless. I got good at pool, I made a room of people laugh. I threw darts like a javelin. The whole first floor of a club copied me when I danced. I sang Bohemian Rhapsody and got a standing ovation. I ran half naked around a snooker table. I went to Alton Towers with friends. I went on holiday to Centre Parcs. I sang karaoke, ate sushi, went to the cinema with my best friend and was nearly suffocated by his farts. I spent hours and hours and hours with him, just talking and drinking and smoking and ripping the shit out of each other. I learned how to cook, I learned how to handle my money (almost). I learned how to crochet and made a beard. I was recognised by my local shopkeepers. I was adopted by a cat. I started weightlifting, hula-hooping and skipping. I found an amazing cocktail bar and spent over £100 with my best friend. I bought my very own TV. I stood up for myself. I became an auntie.
So much has happened to me in the last four years. Some of it good, some of it bad, some of it horrible. But some of it was wonderful and that makes it all worthwhile.
So was it worth getting into about £15-20000’s worth of debt for a poor education when I could have gone to a much better university? Was it worth getting into debt I probably won’t pay off for years when I could have been working with animals? Getting a motorbike? Finding a job I love? Of course it was. I may not get a first degree with honours, but the experiences and adventures I’ve had have been worth every penny and more.
So to those of you I’ve briefly met, those of you I hate. To those of you I’ve shared a night with, those of you I’ve kissed. Those of you I love, those of you I laugh with. Those of you I can be crazy with, those of you who I can be myself with. To those of you who accept me for who I am, and those of you who don’t know what you’re missing. All of you. Thank you. For everything.
A Pirate's Life For Me 