Scarred by the Bell: The College Years

Grandiose thoughts often cross my mind. Sometimes, there is this overwhelming feeling of invincibility, god-like power; a feeling that I can be absolutely incredible at something. Destined for something great. To make a great change to many people. Almost like searching for the key to open my own special door, but never finding it. I watch other people find theirs, looking through their door's glass panes and witnessing the party of a lifetime. Status is associated to having wealth and power. I felt, if I had more, done more, then it meant I was doing the right thing and I'd be happy. The premise I adopted was: if it isn't difficult then it isn't worth it. But I struggle with being able to let myself accept who I am as a person. My personality has the capability of showing wealth of character far more than things I buy. I dress myself in a certain manner to hide my self-hate. I dress what I have the best way I feel comfortable. However, some people deem it necessary to project their insecurities onto me, which in turn sends me into a negative self-hate spiral. I was training some guys at work to become technicians. They are intelligent guys; they knew what they were doing. But we all mucked together to get the job done properly. It's no secret that you can hear me coming before you see me; my jewellery puts Santa's sleigh bells to shame. The trainee, during a session about networking protocols, out of context, asked me: "Do I wear a lot of jewellery to make up for the lack of personality?".

To hear that, only confirmed to the evil voices in my head that they were right because, I heard it from a third party. Superficiality wins in most cases. My car has to be better than most, as well as my flat, and earning more than most, my clothing coordination needs to always be on point. I beat myself up constantly. The thoughts I have about myself are always really negative. Social media make it even worse. If it's people moving to California, bragging about their holiday or their perfect relationships. All of it makes me wonder what I've done wrong to be caught in limbo. Not unhappy, not sad, with these swinging bouts of happiness and anger. I made a good friend of mine tearful the way I described myself. They were so angry with me, they stopped talking to me for a couple of weeks. I used to be able to celebrate people's successes, being genuinely happy for them. Now, someone buys a new flat, a car or gets a promotion, I'm jealous.

Throughout college, I was really introverted; naturally, I am not an extrovert. I don't like to be noticed and I won't instigate conversations with strangers. I struggled badly to make friends in college, ate alone at lunch, never stepped foot in the common room and sat in library studying. I wanted to socialise, I just didn't know how. People would say hello to me and I would respond, but I'd be so nervous, my hands would shake and my voice came out mousey. I was popular in secondary school and also Head Boy. Public speaking then, seemed a doddle. Socialising was easy. During college, I was a different boy, in an alien social environment.

Secondary school had chipped away a lot of my self-confidence. Being bullied about my perceived sexuality, defending my bright personality, being dumped by girls and being told the other boys were far more attractive, contributed to that a lot. Most of my self-confidence and esteem in Years 10 and 11 was borrowed from others. I gave the few friends I had advice and used the success of my advice in their life as a boost. Once I hit college, I had spent my confidence and self-esteem. I was afraid of my personality and learned to heavily dilute it. Afraid of how much I had to offer believing I had nothing to give. Sensitivity was weak, intelligence meant you were a boffin and a goody-two-shoes, dependability meant you were a soft touch, self-reflection meant you were aloof and narcissistic and exuberance meant you were gay. I was all of these things and more. Sensitive to people's emotions, a good listener, able to apply flexible thought to most situations, self reflective and quiet sometimes and exuberant in dress sense. None of these things were prerequisites to being popular. On the train home, the college girls would talk about how they wanted bad boys. They had to be tall and muscular, head-to-toe in designer clothing, earning a stack of money, (I'm not sure how when half of these kids were earning Education Maintenance Allowance) and drive a car. In comparison, I was working one day a week in MK One earning about £100 a month, I helped my mother with the weekly food shop and had no idea where to score weed from, no car, I was tall, but skinny with acne. I was, by their definition, a loser. Everyone 'seemed' to be doing better than me. I wasn't desirable, so I faded into the background. I was the first one into the classroom, first one out. I didn't know how these college kids were affording to drive and go out clubbing every weekend. I was just about affording my contract phone and buying a pair of jeans. I made acquaintances in college, but none of the people are in my life solidly now. Those two years of college were the loneliest years of my life. I struggled carrying the baggage of my self-image, my sexuality, my personality and I was experiencing some really odd mood swings. I juggled all of my issues trying to even the weight. But It was getting heavier and heavier with each toss and catch.

I was desperate to feel something other than dread, sorrow and sadness. I was drowning in my own self-pity, but refusing to be kind to myself, disallowing myself to replenish what I had emotionally spent. I wanted to know what it felt like to get high, drink alcohol until I got paralytic, get invited to parties, have sex with different girls. I was vomiting quite frequently at this point, which was the partly the reason I was so skinny. I wasn't making myself sick, but being faced with going to college and practically spending the whole day alone, not really having a friend to talk to would make feel sad and anxious. I'd often front I was happy, jovial, and chilled out. When inside I was broken, hurt, lost and very sad. I learnt to switch my emotions on and off, appearing aloof and void of anything that made me, me. I had a girlfriend at the time and I told her nothing about my tribulations. She'd begged me to talk to her, to tell her what was wrong. I'd shut down and push her away. I had to be strong for her, for everyone else; people relied on me. There's always time for me. It was weak to tell anyone how I was feeling, especially a girl. No way was I prepared to emasculate myself, just to make myself feel better. What an absolute waste of time. When on my own, every feeling I had on hold burst through like a river bursting it's banks. This was about the time I started to hear more than one voice in my head. One, telling me to man up and suck it up. The other, telling me I wasn't worth it and pathetic. They'd argue, frequently.

Around the start of college my granddad died. My granddad was the funniest person I knew next to my dad. I had spent my early years with him in Jamaica. He was a solid part of my childhood and I miss him very much. He had the ability to have everyone around him in stitches of laughter. Don't do anything questionable around granddad, because he would re-tell your misfortunes for everyone else's entertainment. I wanted to be funny like him because it made everyone so happy. When he died, this is was the first time I struggled with the concept of death. It was so final, I would never see this man again, nor have I ever spoke to anyone about how I felt. At his funeral, there were so many people they all couldn't fit in the church. People were congregated at the back, on the balcony, overcrowding on pews, everywhere. People who I have never seen cry before, grown men with their own kids, in pieces over my granddad's death. I can't face that one day too, I will also die. I still have panic attacks in my sleep, often believing I'd fall asleep to never wake in the morning. Waking up gasping for air, my heart racing, afraid to fall asleep again. My issues with sleep began here too; I experienced insomnia for the first time.

I was being challenged by a lot different things during those years. I was being strong for my family because of granddad's death but, I had also developed this fake persona of being independent. I was dealing with unresolved issues of childhood bullying, confusion about my sexuality, feeling inadequate, anxiety attacks physically making me sick, self-image problems and social anxiety and isolation issues. I developed a bad switching-off coping mechanism. People that were close to me at this time saw this instant change in mood sometimes. Some questioned it, others thought it was hormonal. In fact, I was already experiencing this throughout secondary school. I didn't speak about it due to social pressure and also not realising who I had around to support me. At this point, I couldn't hide it anymore.

Fridays at college were the worst day for me. I had a Communications class at 9am. My next class which was Law, was at 4pm. I had a huge gap. 6 hours on my own. There is only so much lunch and library time you can do on your own. My Creative Zen music player kept me company. Listening to music distracted me from my negative thoughts. India Aire's Brown Skin is one particular track. I needed to hear every detail, so getting good headphones was very important. I dreamt about singing, everyday. I wanted to belt out a Kelly Price song or a Luther Vandross ballad. My cousin and I used to sit for hours braiding my hair and playing records on repeat. It used to drive my mum nuts. We would sing at the top of our lungs trying to hit the notes The Clark Sisters would sing effortlessly. I wanted to write songs, so I started writing. Re-writing lyrics to existing songs, even started to harmonise vocals over the choruses on certain tracks, ad-libing on others. I am obsessed with track listings, composers, producers, album concept and art. There was a record shop on Orpington High Street opposite my college. I'd go in there and the second I walk in I feel the weight lift off my shoulders. I'd spend a good two hours flicking through CDs, stacking a pile up and listening to them. Once, I bought 6 albums. In those 6 albums was Van Hunt's self titled debut album. An incredibly soulful rock infused record about heartbreak and desire. Every time I listen to that album now in headphones or through speakers, it reminds me I can get through difficult times.

University was coming. This scared the shit out of me. It was going to make me, or break me. The latter seemed more likely.