Better Late Than Never

“Well done.” My stepfather says. “You’ve been doing really good things lately.”

I smile and shrug and follow him into the living room where the family are gathered to watch the football. It’s Italy versus England, and I’m supporting my home country in spirit while one of my stepbrothers jokes about trying out for Fulham, and my mother fiddles with her phone because I’ve borrowed her laptop for the night. The Open University tends to run outside of normal working hours, and my fellow students and I have just finished allocating parts for some group work. Someone has commented on me doing full-time study, and how it must be hard. Lol yeah.

The thing to do in these situations is give a weary assent but communicate your generally positive outlook and then power on through. You finish your colour-coordinated notes and make another cup of tea; knuckle down.

Except I can’t.

I do occasionally prepare notes, made more aesthetically pleasing with the use of sharpies. I have a list of my assignments tacked up on my wall. I find face-to-face tutorials really engaging, and for a couple of hours afterwards I’m energized and ready to work. I get home, and then suddenly, four hours have passed and I’m still sitting on the sofa with my shoes on.

Studying when you struggle with mental health problems is sometimes a seemingly impossible task. Even sitting down to write this piece is difficult. Mustering the energy to put words to paper (or fingers to keyboard) is something that drains my brain faster than fairy lights powered by a supermarket own-brand battery. No matter how many times people say you’re doing well, or that you can cope, it always seems that you don’t have the energy, that you can’t focus, that there’s no way you can manage this. For me, it feels as though there’s a sponge full of water in my frontal lobe, and no matter how hard I try to think, the electric signals are blocked and nothing can pass. I’m always tired.

People try to offer up home cures: meditation, green tea, going for a walk. All these things can be good, and different things work for different people. I do in fact do all of the above, and if nothing else they’re a fun way to pass blocks of time. I’m becoming a bit of a tea pro, in fact, and take considerable pride in grandly offering my friends a choice of beverage when they come to visit. However, none of this makes a difference when I’m staring at a rudimentary essay plan the day before the deadline.

My second essay for one module proved impossible to hand in on time. I had brain fog and knew there was no way I’d meet the deadline. I decided to take a risk and call my tutor to ask for an extension. When he asked me why, I took a leap of faith and told him the truth. Over the years, teachers have assumed that my inability to do work was a sign of trouble, that I was difficult and lazy. This time, I was granted an extension on medical grounds and was told to let him know any time I needed the same.

Not every teacher is as sympathetic as this, but for me the difference it made to have someone listen and treat me with respect was huge. I never realised how badly I needed to hear a figure of authority tell me that it was valid to struggle, and that they understood. They believed I wanted to work. Up until that point, I wasn’t sure I really believed it myself.

I’d bought into the myth that I just needed to snap out of it and just try. As someone returning to education five years after finishing secondary school, I’d watched old classmates graduate and move on, convinced they had some secret power I just didn’t. I’ve suffered from depression for almost eleven years, and anxiety for half of those, and in that entire time I’d never had someone acknowledge the fact that mental illness is not simply a lame excuse to get out of homework.

You can ask for more time because your mental health is bad. It’s allowed. It’s okay.

For those reading this who are responsible for guiding others: let them know you believe in them. Be gentle. Listen. It can mean the difference between someone believing they cannot amount to anything and someone who is proud that they tried.

For those reading this who need to hear the magic words: I know it’s hard. Handle yourself with care.

Take all the time you need.

Mara Moon is a professional procrastinator, reader and cat lover who spends her time hanging out with the nerd squad at the local pub and occasionally studies for a history degree.