Memoirs Of A Graduate

My blogs are all starting to look sort of similar lately. Me soul searching for what I want to be, what I want to do with life.


I’ve started applying for jobs, not necessarily careers as such but just something to do over summer, keep me in pocket since funds are trawling somewhat at the moment. I’ve never really had a problem getting a job in the past, find 20 and apply, here back from 3 or 4. Then interviews I’m usually okay with. I’ll be shy as hell and nervous as hell but I get quite good at wearing a mask in interviews. Pretending I’m the most confident, outgoing girl in the world. It usually passes and I get the job. At the moment though, I can’t even find 20 jobs to apply to. I can’t even find 3 or 4. The reality of the situation the country is in, unemployment, masses of people searching for jobs and hitting dead ends, is finally sinking in.

I still definitely want a job helping people. I like looking after people. I’m good at it. I probably would make a good nurse if I wasn’t squeamish about excessive blood and hankles. I could be a care assistant again but that was different. When a person’s sick or injured and you’re helping them – they’re grateful. When they’re senile or insane, you become the enemy. You’re trying to help them but they don’t see it this way.

I always sort of saw it from the carer’s perspective until recently. That it was frustrating and difficult. But I’ve just finished reading Water for Elephants. The films just come out and for those of you who have seen the trailers you’re probably thinking ‘Oh it’s a soppy love film with that git who sparkles.’ I’ve not yet seen the film but the book, well yes there is a love story entwined but I wouldn’t call it a love story. It’s all quite sinister. Half the book is the perspective of one of the characters later in life looking back. He’s an old man in a home. His thoughts in the book make you realise that probably, a lot of them feel that way. Devastated at what they’re life has become, frail, unable to walk, to remember, eating stew and semolina while they crave ‘real food’. It’s very true of real life in care. Every day we’d wheel them to dinner, plonk a plate of mush in front of them and insist they eat it before we pushed them back to their rooms. At the time it seemed we were helping, but the book’s given me massive perspective, some of those people could easily sit and eat proper, solid food. It impossible to tell what they want sometimes so helping them isn’t easy.

The longing to be a counsellor is still there. I’m good at it. It frustrates me so much, something I’m perfectly good at now would require another 4 years in university just to prove I’m good at it? I could of done it before uni, yeah I got a 1st in my Counselling coursework BECAUSE I’m good at it but I could have told you that without 30 hours of lectures telling me how to ‘be there for someone’. It’s something that comes natural. Compassion isn’t knowledge transferable.

I sort of regret taking the subject I did, I wish I’d taken something more precise. You do it, you come out fully qualified to be whatever it was. Do the past three years over. I’ve often said I wouldn’t do that, because I’m happy now and I wouldn’t want to change the outcome. But the truth is I probably would change things. Not just the course I did but, I’d avoid certain people – and others would get my undying appreciation and I’d treat them a lot better. I guess it’s too late to ponder that now but, at least I have the future to make it up to the ones that really matter, and stuck around.


I’ll end on some good news. I got a 1st in my dissertation. I’m pleased but, without sounding cocky, not surprised. You can revise for an exam and come out with an A or a D. They’re unpredictable. This however, I worked hard. Hell I worked harder than hard. I spent so much time on it. I put everything I had into it – and I guess it was worth it.

The next blog won't be about what to do with life.... promise :)