I’m Going to be HOW OLD?

So I’ve just realised that today mark’s eight months since I turned 22– which, of course, means that I only have four months until I’m 23.

Seriously, TWENTY THREE!

And the fact that this is causing me to break out in a cold sweat is worrying since I always thought the mental breakdown over my age would come on my 25th.

I dread to see what happens then…

But anyway, I’ll be 23. I remember when one of my friends turned 23 and we all laughed at him, being the naive 18 year olds that we were. Twenty three was old and by 23 you were expected to have a job, a life, on your way to getting engaged.

This guy was still living with his parents (and their bank accounts).

In all honesty it’s not like I’ve got anything to worry about. My entire life I’ve been ‘too old for my age’ and when I hit 20 I finally felt like I was where I was supposed to be. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life of coure but I felt like a 20something.

I’d wanted to be a 20 something since I stumbled across a blog using the term.

20somethings didn’t have the lack of independence that a child did, or the negative connotations that being a teenager held– no, a 20something could do what they wanted, when they wanted. We’re encouraged to make wild decisions, to go travelling and partying, to find yourself without the constraints of a family.

So why does it feel that that freedom is disappearing?

Even though I’m still a 20something, I’m starting to realise that it might only be the ‘early’ 20somethings who can do that. By early I mean those pre 25 year olds. The rest of us need to be settling down, having kids, getting a career and buying our first homes.

Considering my diet consists of supernoodles and take aways, I better do a helluva lot of growing up in the next two years!


So I Crashed and Burned

For anyone who’s read my blog before, you might have guessed that I’m struggling with my postgraduate degree. The workload has meant that I’m resorting to alnighters in the library to write about topics I don’t fully understand and in all honesty, it is stressful.

But I don’t mean to complain, most people going through university will feel like this. The obvious answer is to get organised, to stop procrasinating and to get on with it– that’s what the wonderful British taxpayers are paying for.

Well today I finally crashed.

I don’t mean literally but I took the hardest mental hit I think I’ve had since I came to university. Now, I have anxiety so I’m used to waking up and just feeling lousey. Most of the time there’ll be absolutely no reason for it so I’ll force myself to get out of bed and go for a walk to clear my head, or I go to the library and throw myself into my assignments.

I refuse to let myself mope around.

Except this morning I woke up and just burst into tears.

Crying isn’t part of my normal routine, I do the sulky bitch face brilliantly but I don’t cry unless I’m drunk. The weird thing was that I just couldn’t stop. The best way to describe it is that I actually felt like my world was ending, I guess kind of how I’ve felt with serious break ups, but nothing had happened to cause it.

Well, I had had a pretty bad night out last night and I was hung over but that’s not exactly news.

So I did what any rational twenty-something girl would do, I ran back home.

Now my problem here is that I’m from the Isle of Man and I go to university in England. There’s 100 miles, a train and a sea for me to get home. So it’s not something I would often do; in fact I’ve been home twice in the past two years.

So you can imagine mum’s shock when I text her telling her I was getting the boat that night. Immediately she phoned me up:

What’s happened? What’ve you done?

(Yes, thanks mum!)

But as soon as she heard me crying she quickly accepted I was coming home and put the phone down… And then got my little sister to phone me up to find out what was the problem.

What’s happened, mum said you refused to tell her anything? You can’t be homesick, no-one would be that desperate to come home.

Like I said, it was a big deal for me to randomly go home.

But I did. And I’m slightly annoyed with myself because I’m always the one saying that running away from your problems doesn’t help; and in all honesty even at midnight I still feel horrible.

But I’ve decided that if anything is going to fix this it’s some time with my dog, some island scenery and some home cooked roast dinners.

Though if I do find a magic cure I’ll be sure to pass it along.