Psyche logo

Living With My Grey Cloud

And Trying to Find Some Rainbows

By Hannah BennettPublished 6 years ago 3 min read
Like

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who prayed every night that she wouldn't wake up. Every morning, she would eat her cereal, put on her school uniform, and struggle through another day of teasing and guilt. She spent playtime crying through loneliness. She ate half her lunch, and lied to her mum about what she ate. She pretended she was okay. She did her homework, read her book instead of going out to play. She went to bed, closed her eyes tight, and prayed that she wouldn't wake up.

Years later, I realised how heartbreaking it was that an eight-year-old was even aware of the concept of death, let alone that she—at such a young age—wished for it to come. I've lived with this for most of my life. That doesn't make it any easier.

Currently, I'm blogging my way through unemployment because I've lost yet another job to depression. I tutor once a week (living of £20 a week ain't an easy feat) so on every application I'm self employed, not unemployed. But let's be honest: it's a load of bull.

Because despite equal opportunities for disabilities, depression is too risky, too intrusive, too unreliable to make me a good employee. Even though I'm studying for a Master's, even though I have a good degree from a good university, even though I've always been smart and achieved fantastic grades, that don't mean jack when the cloud comes a'roaming.

Recently I made a claim for jobseekers allowance. Growing up the way I did, with family who had the good fortune to work from a young age, I was nervous about the prospect of going on benefits. I'm surrounded by older people who gossip about people on benefits being lazy and conning the system. When, two years ago, I made the snap decision to stay with my uncle and aunt during a depressive episode, they left me tasks every day like doing gardening or housework. In my family's eyes, depression is another word for laziness. Even my boyfriend's family are always talking about jobs and money. I feel guilty every day that I'm not out there earning, that I've not held a job for more than nine months. So I claimed for benefits that I can't be paid.I haven't contributed enough, and because I live with my self-employed, hard-working partner, I can't claim based on income. It took a lot for me to put my pride on the shelf, and nothing came of it.

So I'm still spending every day working out how to survive on £200 for the next six weeks. I can't pay my rent this month. I have to budget for fun so that people don't pity me. Why does money make things so hard?! It's not even a thing, it's a concept, but it rules the darn world.

I live with my lovely, patient boyfriend. We decorate our flat, we recently bought a futon for the spare room (for £1—bargain). I wake up next to his stupid beardy face every morning and it crushes me that this little bubble of adulthood and happiness is dwarfed by illness, lack of money, feelings of unreliability, grief, unemployment, anxiety... I want my rainbow-glazed bubble to pop all the colourless ones.

So I am working harder every day to pop them. Today I asked for advice for graduate teacher training, and contacted a local school about experience. I got out of bed and showered and ate lunch. I applied for jobs that I don't believe for a second I will get, but I did it anyway. I want that to be my daily motto: I DID IT ANYWAY.

I overcame my self doubt.

I stuck my finger up to my ghosts.

I started blowing away the clouds.

Can I keep doing it? For the rest of my life?

work
Like

About the Creator

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.