My University Life
My time at university was so cringe-makingly pathetic that I can barely bring myself to think about it. I lived a kind of existential vacuum. I learnt absolutely nothing during those three years. I learned nothing about the subject I was supposed to be studying, which is not surprising because I rarely attended classes. I didn’t develop my social skills. Quite the opposite. I learned that if I drank enough alcohol, I didn’t require social skills. I learned no practical skills (except perhaps how to make a couple of simple Delia Smith dishes). I joined not one club in my time at university. I didn’t partake in any sport. I didn’t explore the local area, except for the pubs in my immediate vicinity. I didn’t travel during the holiday periods. It was truly an embarrassing time.
I made a few friends. I haven’t been in contact with any of them in the decades since leaving University, such was the depth of those friendships. The people I became friendly with were those with whom I lived in Halls of Residence. They were almost enforced friendships. Proximity and alcohol were the only drivers of those relationships.
I didn’t have a single friend on my course. The other students on my course must have seen me as this weird kid that rarely turned up for class, and never spoke when he did turn up. Not crazy weird, just ghostly weird. I have kids now. In the parlance of the kids of today I was most definitely an NPC (Non-player character).
The strange thing is that I remember checking-in with myself about the general pathetic-ness of my life and being ok with it. I somehow couldn’t see the point in developing myself. Maybe I even looked down on the idea. I can only imagine my self-esteem must have been tragically low at that time.
Two episodes come back to me when I recall my Uni years. Neither of them paint me in a particularly impressive light.
When I went to University my Local Education Authority provided me with a termly grant to contribute towards my living expenses. One term my grant was withheld due to poor attendance. If I was to continue to receive a grant there would have to be a marked improvement in both my attendance and grades. I needed that grant money to survive. My savings dwindled away to nothing, and I was now desperate and hungry. One day feeling lost, confused and hungry and decided I needed to retrieve a textbook I had earlier lent to a friend of a friend. Exams were approaching and I figured I might as well do some revision. The friend of a friend lived in some off-campus block of student accommodation. It was a hot day and I struggled for hours to locate his accommodation. When I finally found the block and then his room I knocked on his door but there was no reply. I felt like giving up. I knocked once more, and was about to walk away when he appeared at the door. He looked a little groggy and hungover but invited me in. I guess I must have told him about my financial situation because that afternoon and evening he shouted me fish and chips and numerous beers. The fish and chips tasted incredible. Someone was looking out for me that day. When I say someone was looking out for me it sounds like I mean a higher power or a guardian angel, but maybe it was just that friend of a friend. Within a couple of days my grant money came through again on the back of my improved attendance. I limped on at Uni. A little battered, a little bruised. Still somewhat lost.
The second incident happened during my third and final year at Uni. That year I lived with a random assortment of guys in an old Victorian house. One of the guys was big into his drugs. One evening he and a friend set up some sort of bong or pipe in our kitchen. They invited me to have a go on the pipe. I sucked on the pipe, inhaled deeply, I did a sort of double-inhale. My housemate’s friend said ‘good hit!’. When I sat back down in the living room my heart started racing, my ears - or was it my brain - began shrieking, the smell of cannabis flooded my senses, I felt nauseous. I was panicking as the shrieking and odour and my racing heart built up to a crescendo. And then thankfully all of these reactions began to subside. Thank fuck for that!
A few minutes later the racing heart began to build again. All of the other responses also began to flare up, and this time the high point, the crescendo, was higher than the last time. Just before I reached what felt like an inexorable self-combustion the symptoms once again began to ebb away.
This happened time and time again, each time the zenith of the crescendo was higher than the last. I was convinced I was going to die. Had anyone died from a cannabis overdose before? What a terrible way to go. I couldn’t contain my fear. I ran out into the streets screaming that I was dying. No one answered my screams.
It took my almost six months to recover from that incident. During that time I completed Uni and returned back home. I achieved a third class honours degree. My parents came for my graduation where I was surrounded by my fellow students who were strangers to me. I had regular panic attacks after that bong incident. I refused to sleep for fear I would die of a brain haemorrhage as I endured my nightmares. Sleep would take me only when I was utterly exhausted. I feared water for a time. I feared dry food, thinking it would choke me. From time to time I would get a waft of cannabis odour out of nowhere, just as I was sitting watching TV in my mum’s living room. I thought maybe some cannabis had lodged in my airways or maybe in my brain. Slowly I recovered. To this day I still experience tinnitus as a reminder of that day smoking on a pipe.
These are the memories of my Uni days.
I’ve heard it said that you should view yourself as the hero in your own movie. At that time I was an extra. In someone else’s movie. I was an NPC.