On growing up Eastern European, depressed and somewhat ambitious

Warning: This is a rant post.

I was diagnosed with clinical depression when I was 20, following a less than ideal childhood, a break in and a street mugging that left me more paranoid than children being irrationally afraid of the dark. I’m turning 27 this year and it has been a roller coaster, but it feels better than it did 7 years ago. I managed to move all the way to London, so I guess the depression fog occasionally lifts long enough for me to do some things.

Coming from a restrictive, poor environment, I was never encouraged to go that extra mile in school. Good enough was always enough, as my parents were constantly busy trying to provide for me and my sister, or otherwise busy with their own personal issues. I blamed them for a very long time, but I realised after years and years (of issues) that despite parenthood, they too were people and were going through problems that had little to do with being a parent. I guess therapy does help, with some things.

Growing up, I loved learning languages. That’s what I remember most from my early days in school. My French teacher always encouraged me and cheered me on, and I decided when I was 9 that I wanted to become a translator. My little girl dream was to learn French, English and Arabic and to work for the European Parliament. I’ve always been fascinated with politics. But then I grew up and grew old and exchanged those ambitions for being a writer. I used to write children’s tales in my preteen years and it seemed to flow, so I figured it would be a nice profession. I still do. But I grew up. Unless you’re writing a bestseller, writing isn’t an easy occupation. So I abandoned that thought, although not entirely as I still write fiction, albeit not for publishing purposes. I changed my mind again, or rather was forced by circumstances to do it. I studied business and accountancy, which was a far cry from humanities and the arts. My parents figured it would be a money making career, at least more than spending time at home, coddling my imagination in hopes for a great novel idea.

Then I got diagnosed with depression. Suddenly going to school to study something I couldn’t relate to, couldn’t infuse any passion into, was unbearable and excruciating. Long story short, I thoroughly disappointed my parents and moved to London. I think I was running away. I spent the first two years trying to sort myself out. Did I even have any ambitions left? Did I want to do anything? Did I have a plan? No, I didn’t. So I revisited all my little girl dreams. And I changed my mind, again. Or as I like to think, I made up my mind.

No, I wouldn’t be a banker, or a hedge fund manager. I decided journalism was what I wanted to do. Or even publishing would suffice, if I happened to be a horrible writer. So I went back to school to dedicate my mid to late 20s to a craft that has become insufferably competitive, and even more so if you’re not from a country whose reputation doesn’t involve thievery, homelessness, carelessness and debauchery.

I was happy! And since being diagnosed at age 20, I couldn’t remember what happy was. But when I got the acceptance letter, I was happy. Fast forward two years later and here I am. I’m about to start my senior year and I think I made a huge mistake. Not in choosing to study in this field, or pursuing a career that’s increasingly more dangerous than rewarding (or so would the newspapers have you believe). But I think it would have been easier for me to choose something that’s predictable and expected of someone like me. I tell people what I want to do and they deeply congratulate me. For studying in a foreign language, for wanting a writing career in a foreign language, for trying to break free of all the negative stereotypes that surround my nationality. I know, I know, I should feel grateful for all the nice things people say. But I feel offended most of the time. Yes, people are nice saying these things to me. Yes, they seem to mean it. No, they aren’t aware of my past experiences and no, they don’t know my journey. It’s offensive to me that people pigeonhole me as that Eastern European girl trying to bite more than she can chew. I would rather they said that girl whose writing puts us all to sleep. Which I’m sure I have by now.

I dream of being a political journalist. Depression often keeps me from pursuing it, but I occasionally take one step further and I’m reminded that this really is something I want to do. Can I do it, really? I live in a country who constantly talks about Eastern European citizens like they’re the devil incarnate. And you know, some are very bad. But some of us have to hide our nationality on résumés, and even then it’s still hard to find a job that’s not in cleaning services or in the catering industry, because that is what’s expected of us. So maybe I am making a mistake in having big dreams and ambitions that are better suited for people who go to schools like Eton and Oxbridge and eat with a silver spoon every day. Perhaps I was wrong in thinking I can pursue a successful career in a competitive field in a country that prides itself on being free and equal. Maybe I should marry rich. Maybe I should have claimed benefits and bought myself a silver spoon.