Growing Up

I've been thinking a lot recently about growing up and revisiting my past.

Last week, through work, I ended up visiting two of my old education establishments. I started thinking about how the buildings have changed since I was there and how I have changed since I was there.

It has been ten years since I left Kings and eight since I left Sixth Form College. The buildings are very different with new libraries and learning centres, full of computers and interactive whiteboards. There's state of the art technology, new ways of teaching and new ways of learning. But what about the pupils? Are they still the same as I was? Are they going through the same things that we all went through in our school days, whatever that might mean to an individual.

Then last night I went to watch King's take on the Royal Grammar School in what was always one of the biggest events in the school year. When I was at school, it was held on a Saturday afternoon at the games pitches of one of the schools and there were a couple of hundred people who turned up to support, standing behind a bit of rope at the side of the pitch. Lots of OVs (Old Vigornians - ex King's pupils) came back to worcester from wherever they were living to support the boys. People cheered and shouted and hurled abuse at the other team and their supporter. I remember very clearly that it was 1995 when I was just thirteen that I went to my first Grammar match and in fact, my first rugby match. I remember standing next to my sister and my dad, watching the match and singing songs far too rude for a thirteen year old to really be singing.

This year the match was held on a Wednesday night at Sixways, home of the Worcester Warriors, in front of a crowd of around 3,800. The supporters were seperated on each side of the pitch, no alcohol was allowed out of the bar and everyone was under strict instructions not to boo the other team and be all sporting and generally polite. It was odd.

what was even odder was looking at this pitch of eighteen year old boys. The first team. When I was at school, the upper sixth (and particularly the first IV) were the heroes of the school. They were the one that we lusted after, the ones we fancied, the ones whose names we wrote in little hearts all over our note books. They were big and strong and so mature. But looking at these fifteen skinny, spotty teenagers, I wondered if the girls in the stands felt the same about them that I did when I was that age. Guessing by the screams not disimilar to a Take That concert and the 'Go Kings' banners that had been lovingly made for the occasions, I think that they do.

It got me thinking about my school days. It wasn't a happy time in my life and I wondered that if I went back, would things be any different? If I went back to school knowing everything I know now, would it be a happier time? Would I be more popular, would I fit in? When I went to visit last week, as I was leaving, I saw a girl standing out the Winslow Block (science) crying. She had a friend with her who gave her a hug but she looked so lonely. It made me sad to see her. I could see myself in her and I wanted to get out my car and give her a hug, to tell her that whatever is making her feel so bad now, won't always be that way.

I think that if I could go back and talk to my twelve year old self, I'd tell her not to worry. I wouldn't change anything. What I went through at school made me who I am today. It shaped me and gave me the confidence to go out and do different things, make new friends and made me into me. I don't think I'd want to change that.

Ramblings of a Sunday morning

I'm currently lying in my boyfriend's bed on a Sunday morning. He has gone to Mass but I was too cold and feeling a little emotionally fragile so decided to stay behind. It's given me some time to think. Think about life, about what has been happening since I last blogged, about where my life is and was and will be.



Things have been hard to say the least these past few weeks. One thing after another got on top of me and I ended up having a panic attack. This scared me as I haven't had one in literally years. Stephen was with me and was fantastic. It understandably freaked him out but he just held me and stroked my hair and told me everything would be okay.



After that I went to the doctor and was put on antidepressants. I guess the day would always come when I started taking them. I've been fighting them for so long thinking I could get through things on my own but I've admitted that I can't. I don't think I'll be on them forever and the doctor agrees. I just need something, right now, to help me get back to being the 'old me'.



I have been staring at this screen for a few minutes now, deciding whether or not to delete that last paragraph. I know that not too many people read my blog, its more my own personal way of getting everything out but what if someone did read it? Someone I wouldn't normally open up to. Would they think less of me because I suffer from depression? Would this title of 'mental illness' change the way they react to me? I actually resisted going on antidepressants for a similar reason. Not because I have any hang ups about mental illness or depression, it's something I have grown very used to over the years. My main worry was that my parents would blame themselves. That this was genetic and it was their fault I'm now suffering. I don't blame them and they have been absolutely fantastic in supporting me and helping me through this.



I was also worried about what if other people found out but actually it has come up on conversation with a few people and it's amazing how many other people have been through something similar to me. I know I have a lot of friends around me who are there to support me if I need it.



I won't talk about work because that's another two page rant that I can keep for another time.

And then there is Stephen. I honestly do not know what I would have done without him these past few weeks. I don't think I would have coped. I don't think I could have even made it out of bed some days. He's been my port in this storm. I don't think he understands what I'm going through, he's not had any previous experience with it the way my family have, but he doesn't need to. He's there and he instinctively knows what to do and what to say. He holds me so tight I don't feel like anyone else can get to me or hurt me. He is silly and makes me laugh when I need it but also knows when not to say anything, when to just let me cry.



I don't know why he puts up with it. I've given him a get out clause several times and told him I don't expect him to stay with me. Who wants a mentally ill girlfriend? But he just tells me to shut up, puts his arm around me and bites my nose to make me giggle.

So, as I lay in bed (wireless Internet is honestly a fantastic invention!), waiting for my wonderful man to come back from mass, I'm thinking about the future. The present might be a bit tough for the moment but I have a feeling things will turn out okay in the long run. I just need to get through 'now'