New Times,
New Thinking.

  1. Culture
  2. Life
13 October 2021updated 14 Oct 2021 11:48am

My worst summer ever is finally over and I sense my old self returning

Perhaps it is the change of season, but I have started to feel better – and I will take the good days when they come.

By Pippa Bailey

Back in June, when I first bared myself in this magazine (not like that – this is page 57, not three), the New Statesman’s Official Funniest Writer, our TV critic Rachel Cooke, emailed to tell me a little of her own story of the ending of something she thought would never end, and to offer some encouragement. “It was like being ill,” she wrote. “When I felt better, which took less time than I expected, I felt so incredibly well… like Superwoman, or something.” At the time I couldn’t imagine feeling human, let alone superhuman. Well, reader, she was right.

Perhaps it is only temporary, and the crash, when it comes, will be all the worse for the high – like the hill I enjoy whizzing down every morning on my bike, only to struggle up on my way home. Perhaps it is the antidepressants finally kicking in. But I have spent too much time questioning why I feel better on the days I do: what if contentment is really numbness? And if I am OK without him, is he OK without me? (I do not want him to be.) I will take the good days when they come.

Perhaps it is the change of season. The pressure of summer to be having the Best Time Ever – to be your most tanned, most fun self – is only exacerbated when you are, in fact, having the Worst Time Ever. I have to refrain from screaming every time I receive an email beginning, “I hope you’ve had a good summer.”

While others decry the shorter days, the long nights indoors, winter is my favourite time of year. I loved it long before Game of Thrones told us it was coming. I love the bright, blue days that smell of crisp, sharp newness, and feel like a gift when they arrive. I love the clothes: the layers, the leather, the wool. I love the mohair, cobalt and fluffy, on my knitting needles. I love the food: abandoning the pretence that anyone prefers salad to mac ’n’ cheese, and hiding the effects of such a diet under the aforementioned layers. It is telling that for my first trip outside the UK for nearly two years, I have chosen not the Algarve, like everyone on Instagram, but Denmark and Sweden.

This year the lower temperatures are accompanied by some sense of a sort of normality returning. I feel more clearly, purely myself than I have in a long time – maybe years. Those heavy, clouded mornings when I struggle to wrest myself from bed are less frequent, and the years ahead no longer feel like quite such a life sentence. I fill my sketchbook with things to sew, to knit, to paint, and the novel I have been talking about writing for years now exists, in small parts, on paper, rather than simply in my head. I have been to the cinema three times in the past week (Bond, The Alpinist, The Nest – decent, better, brilliant, since you asked). After the last, I walked out into a billboard-bright Piccadilly Circus, artificial white light on my face despite the night sky, and the idea that I could ever have left this city that I love to move across the Irish Sea suddenly seemed laughable.

Select and enter your email address The New Statesman's quick and essential guide to the news and politics of the day. The best way to sign up for Morning Call is via morningcall.substack.com Your weekly guide to the best writing on ideas, politics, books and culture every Saturday. The best way to sign up for The Saturday Read is via saturdayread.substack.com
Visit our privacy Policy for more information about our services, how Progressive Media Investments may use, process and share your personal data, including information on your rights in respect of your personal data and how you can unsubscribe from future marketing communications.
THANK YOU

It is curious, once a relationship has ended, to observe the ways you – naturally, inevitably – bend yourself to fit around someone else, define yourself against the other (my ex, for example, was extroverted to the extent that I was labelled, and so became, more introverted than I am). I have never considered myself brave because I am not, in the conventional, physical sense, daring. But I am realising that just because my “adventures” don’t involve goat-like feats of coasteering, or breaking up fights involving a chainsaw (a true story, which he loves to tell), it does not mean they aren’t adventurous. I sign up to new things with the energy of a first-year student at a freshers’ fair, paying £30 a pop for societies they will never actually attend (the two I stuck with: ballroom dancing and the university’s feminist magazine). This week, it’s a strongwoman course; next, a weekend in Aarhus, alone.

My old life is shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces, and I know I will be picking the shards out of the tender soles of my feet for a long time to come. But the worst of them are, I hope, swept away. I remind myself of what my mother has told me on the numerous times over the past months that I have called her to say, “I can’t do this”: “You can, and you are.”

[See also: My solo hotel weekend serves up both emotional trials and small consolations]

Content from our partners
The Circular Economy: Green growth, jobs and resilience
Water security: is it a government priority?
Defend, deter, protect: the critical capabilities we rely on

This article appears in the 13 Oct 2021 issue of the New Statesman, Perfect Storm