My Chester Story - Prologue
This time next week, I will have begun my three years at the University of Chester. I'm equal parts terrified and excited to begin.
For anyone who doesn't know me (you never know who will stumble upon your little corner of the internet), I've been to university once before. Bear with me, now, because I'm about to embark on a tale that's a bit long, and perhaps meandering - but it all leads to where I am today.
My name is Kelza, and at the tender young age of fourteen, I decided that Queen's University in Belfast was where I wanted to go. Nowhere else would suffice. I decided one summer when I was back in my native Northern Ireland for a few weeks, absent-mindedly flicking through a newspaper in which I found an advert for the university.
Years later, in Sixth Form, I applied through UCAS to five different universities - but QUB was my first choice, and in my heart, my only choice.
I got my A-Levels. I got in.
After a gap year filled with many adventures, I packed my bags and moved back to Northern Ireland to stay with my Mum. Autumn semester began... and I was struck down with depression.
I can't pinpoint a singular thing that caused it. Looking back, it was probably the result of a bunch of things. I missed my fiancé, who I'd left in England. My period had stopped; I was terrified that I was pregnant, at the worst possible time. I would later be diagnosed with PCOS (hence no period), which meant that my hormones were going mental. We lost people in the family - two aunts on my Dad's side, both to cancer, both within a month. Dad couldn't attend the funerals due to transport issues, which caused unnecessary drama. I worried about him. My grades slipped, dragging me further down.
Etcetera etcetera. One January morning, I went into the town centre as if I was going to get my bus to uni, but I didn't make it to the stop. My limbs were leaden, my head felt as though it was stuffed with cotton wool, packed almost to bursting. I felt vague, like a faceless background character in my own life. It was my favourite kind of winter's day; clear sky, slightly hazy, lovely crisp air. But I didn't notice. I'd gotten to the point where I was stuck in my own tempestuous head, beyond noticing much at all.
I sat down by the River Bann. Ironically, the lack of motivation that comes with depression might have done me a favour that day, because it kept me rooted down in spite of my thoughts. If I'd had the motivation to stand, I might have walked straight into the river. I couldn't swim, it was cold, maybe I would just slip under peacefully and go numb. I didn't have the energy to try, but it was on my mind.
I'd been there an hour or so when an old lady came by on the path behind me, walking her dog. Perhaps she knew something was up - or perhaps she was just an ordinary, conversational old lady, but she stopped.
“Isn't it a bit cold to be sitting out?” she asked.
I turned, looked up at her.
“Yeah, actually, I am quite chilly,” I said, feigning a smile, and stood. We talked for a moment, small talk about the weather. I petted her dog, then wandered back home. No point going into uni now, my Philosophy tutorial was starting and the journey to Belfast was about an hour.
A few days later, after I'd had an especially rough few days, my mum sat me down. She told me that she thought I was depressed, and I should go back to England. It wasn't that she didn't want to deal with me, but she probably felt that I could recover properly there with the support of my family and friends, and then have a fresh start. I agreed with her.
I came back as soon as I had the money for a ferry ticket, and then spent the next three or four years trying to deal with it myself. I got a part time job, kept sporadic diaries (which I am still working to upload on here), and just tried to survive each day as best as I could. But in 2015, it became clear that it wasn't something that I could do by myself, not from the beginning.
I took up Kundalini yoga and finally worked up the courage to go to my GP. He prescribed antidepressants, and referred me to MindMatters, a therapy service. In 2016, sessions began - a combination of talking therapy for my depression, and online CBT for my anxiety. Long story short, it was excellent and did wonders for me.
So I decided that now was the time to reapply for university. Unlike last time, where I had focused exclusively on an English degree (well, English Language and Literature with Creative Writing, and modules in Philosophy), I wanted to bring in my other great passion: Art. I researched courses, and discovered Fine Art and English Literature at the University of Chester. I'd been to the city once before and remembered that it was beautiful - better still, I wouldn't have to leave my support network at home. I applied, I got in, and here I am today!
This time round, I'm much more prepared. I've pretty much read the books we'll be studying for English Literature, and I've done some reading for Art History. I've bought a railcard, and worked out my travel well in advance. I've mapped out my timetable for Induction Week, made contact with a ton of societies at Chester, and planned my time so that I might even have a social life!
I didn't cultivate any kind of life beyond university at QUB. The anxiety played into this a lot as well, because I was too nervous to talk to people. My head was filled with negative thoughts: “they like other people better”, “they think I'm a loser” etc. This time, I plan on being more involved. I'm already on a few group chats on Facebook, talking to people on there - and it's comforting to see that they're all lovely folks, many of whom have the same worries both about work and socialising. I like to think that when we all meet in person, we'll be put at ease and have a good laugh.
Now that I've put the past five years firmly behind me, I'm ready to begin the next chapter in my story; my Chester story. But I won't dismiss the last five years as a waste of my time; in fact, I learned so much from my experiences with anxiety and depression, and grew from it. I still occasionally struggle, and slip back into bad habits, but now I have the skills to pick myself back up. I'm much more open about what I've been through, in the hopes that it'll encourage others to open up as well and smash the stigma that still lingers around mental health. I've become more in tune with my body and my mind, and in my endeavour to recover, I've discovered new hobbies (knitting, crochet, yoga) and, though these, met wonderful people. I'm hoping that university will bring me more of the same.
For anyone who doesn't know me (you never know who will stumble upon your little corner of the internet), I've been to university once before. Bear with me, now, because I'm about to embark on a tale that's a bit long, and perhaps meandering - but it all leads to where I am today.
My name is Kelza, and at the tender young age of fourteen, I decided that Queen's University in Belfast was where I wanted to go. Nowhere else would suffice. I decided one summer when I was back in my native Northern Ireland for a few weeks, absent-mindedly flicking through a newspaper in which I found an advert for the university.
Years later, in Sixth Form, I applied through UCAS to five different universities - but QUB was my first choice, and in my heart, my only choice.
I got my A-Levels. I got in.
After a gap year filled with many adventures, I packed my bags and moved back to Northern Ireland to stay with my Mum. Autumn semester began... and I was struck down with depression.
I can't pinpoint a singular thing that caused it. Looking back, it was probably the result of a bunch of things. I missed my fiancé, who I'd left in England. My period had stopped; I was terrified that I was pregnant, at the worst possible time. I would later be diagnosed with PCOS (hence no period), which meant that my hormones were going mental. We lost people in the family - two aunts on my Dad's side, both to cancer, both within a month. Dad couldn't attend the funerals due to transport issues, which caused unnecessary drama. I worried about him. My grades slipped, dragging me further down.
Etcetera etcetera. One January morning, I went into the town centre as if I was going to get my bus to uni, but I didn't make it to the stop. My limbs were leaden, my head felt as though it was stuffed with cotton wool, packed almost to bursting. I felt vague, like a faceless background character in my own life. It was my favourite kind of winter's day; clear sky, slightly hazy, lovely crisp air. But I didn't notice. I'd gotten to the point where I was stuck in my own tempestuous head, beyond noticing much at all.
I sat down by the River Bann. Ironically, the lack of motivation that comes with depression might have done me a favour that day, because it kept me rooted down in spite of my thoughts. If I'd had the motivation to stand, I might have walked straight into the river. I couldn't swim, it was cold, maybe I would just slip under peacefully and go numb. I didn't have the energy to try, but it was on my mind.
I'd been there an hour or so when an old lady came by on the path behind me, walking her dog. Perhaps she knew something was up - or perhaps she was just an ordinary, conversational old lady, but she stopped.
“Isn't it a bit cold to be sitting out?” she asked.
I turned, looked up at her.
“Yeah, actually, I am quite chilly,” I said, feigning a smile, and stood. We talked for a moment, small talk about the weather. I petted her dog, then wandered back home. No point going into uni now, my Philosophy tutorial was starting and the journey to Belfast was about an hour.
A few days later, after I'd had an especially rough few days, my mum sat me down. She told me that she thought I was depressed, and I should go back to England. It wasn't that she didn't want to deal with me, but she probably felt that I could recover properly there with the support of my family and friends, and then have a fresh start. I agreed with her.
I came back as soon as I had the money for a ferry ticket, and then spent the next three or four years trying to deal with it myself. I got a part time job, kept sporadic diaries (which I am still working to upload on here), and just tried to survive each day as best as I could. But in 2015, it became clear that it wasn't something that I could do by myself, not from the beginning.
I took up Kundalini yoga and finally worked up the courage to go to my GP. He prescribed antidepressants, and referred me to MindMatters, a therapy service. In 2016, sessions began - a combination of talking therapy for my depression, and online CBT for my anxiety. Long story short, it was excellent and did wonders for me.
So I decided that now was the time to reapply for university. Unlike last time, where I had focused exclusively on an English degree (well, English Language and Literature with Creative Writing, and modules in Philosophy), I wanted to bring in my other great passion: Art. I researched courses, and discovered Fine Art and English Literature at the University of Chester. I'd been to the city once before and remembered that it was beautiful - better still, I wouldn't have to leave my support network at home. I applied, I got in, and here I am today!
This time round, I'm much more prepared. I've pretty much read the books we'll be studying for English Literature, and I've done some reading for Art History. I've bought a railcard, and worked out my travel well in advance. I've mapped out my timetable for Induction Week, made contact with a ton of societies at Chester, and planned my time so that I might even have a social life!
I didn't cultivate any kind of life beyond university at QUB. The anxiety played into this a lot as well, because I was too nervous to talk to people. My head was filled with negative thoughts: “they like other people better”, “they think I'm a loser” etc. This time, I plan on being more involved. I'm already on a few group chats on Facebook, talking to people on there - and it's comforting to see that they're all lovely folks, many of whom have the same worries both about work and socialising. I like to think that when we all meet in person, we'll be put at ease and have a good laugh.
Now that I've put the past five years firmly behind me, I'm ready to begin the next chapter in my story; my Chester story. But I won't dismiss the last five years as a waste of my time; in fact, I learned so much from my experiences with anxiety and depression, and grew from it. I still occasionally struggle, and slip back into bad habits, but now I have the skills to pick myself back up. I'm much more open about what I've been through, in the hopes that it'll encourage others to open up as well and smash the stigma that still lingers around mental health. I've become more in tune with my body and my mind, and in my endeavour to recover, I've discovered new hobbies (knitting, crochet, yoga) and, though these, met wonderful people. I'm hoping that university will bring me more of the same.