It wasn’t until I came to the conclusion that I was miserable in my job that I first heard the monkey on my back screaming. Browsing through open vacancies online, I’d find a role I felt I’d be perfect for. Reading the job description would confirm it: yes, I can do all of that. More importantly, I enjoy all of that. And then I’d get to the inevitable essential criteria section and read the word “Degree”. That’s when the scream would start. The monkey living on my back would take the chance to remind me that I wasn’t good enough. That I had ideas above my station. “You had your opportunity, and you blew it. Just be happy with what you’ve got. It’s a miracle you have that much”. So, sheepishly, I would simply file it away and mark it down as something other people would do. Not me. But what if I was wrong?
I had never been a “good” student. Growing up a child in the 1980s meant that “dyspraxia” was instead described as being “a bit slow” at best, inherently lazy at worst. I struggled in primary school, where at one point my hand would shake if I was made to write anything down, knowing that the inevitable brow beating for “not holding a pen correctly” would follow. In my final year, pages were torn out of my exercise books routinely by my teacher. Apparently the amount of scribbles and ink splodges I had employed to fix misspelt words were deemed “too messy”. As such, to me school work wasn’t about learning, instead it became about just trying to get through and hoping I wouldn’t be told off.
By the time secondary school had finished I had developed coping mechanisms that, if not exactly healthy, dragged me through. I had come to accept that being told off for not paying attention was par for the course. Trying hard seemed to make no difference at all, so I simply adopted an attitude of “that’ll do”. Over the years, I came to believe that I was just a bit thick, that even the simplest things in the world were beyond my grasp. I scraped through my GCSEs and A-Levels. I even tried going to university in an effort to please my parents; choosing the subject I was best at despite having no real love for it, and was accepted at Aberystwyth University. But while there, something inside me broke; I developed a series of mental health issues, became deeply depressed, and flamed out.
I came home defeated, ashamed, and angry with myself. I was racked with guilt that I had let my family down. Worse, I felt like every negative thought I had ever had about myself was confirmed. “Yes, you are as dumb as a bag of rocks. You’ll never make anything of yourself. You might as well give up now.”
So, in essence, that’s what I did. I moved on. Did what I was accustomed to. Worked in a dead end job, doing enough to get by. As the years rolled on and my friends graduated and started to make strides in their careers, I started a family. I accepted that my life would be different to theirs, and that’s OK. I’m just not as smart as they are.
But the truth is, it gnawed at me. Gently at first. Quietly. Easy to ignore. After all, I was working a full time job as well as being a new parent. I only have so much time for self reflection. Sure, I have regrets, but who doesn’t? Missed opportunities are a part of life. That’s just how it is. Never mind this heavy feeling on my back. I don’t have time to deal with it.
And that’s how it remained for a long time. Every year that went by my monkey would get bigger. Stronger. Louder. And every year I would listen to it scream and become convinced that my life was stuck on a never ending train track. Until one day, after too many glasses of wine, I admitted to an academic friend of mine that I felt like something was missing in my life. “Why don’t you just go back to university?” came the reply.
Like a robot, I had my list of excuses ready. I’m too old. I’m too dumb. I don’t have the time. I can’t afford it. It’s too late now. Repeating them as if I was a pet cockatoo owned by the world’s least successful motivational speaker.
“Have you looked into it?” Er, no. I hadn’t. But, and I have to say this very loudly because the monkey is screaming again, it would only confirm what I already know. “Ok”, she said. And left it at that. A few days later, she sent me an email. Links to universities offering part time courses. A link to Student Finance Wales. And one line of text. “You can do this”.
Begrudgingly, and out of a sense of obligation because they’d taken the time to put together the links, I made myself a cuppa and started browsing. Four hours later I was still there, glued to the screen of my laptop, my mug of tea now stone cold. The more I read, the more I became convinced I had been wrong this entire time. All those excuses didn’t hold up to scrutiny. Too old? There are student stories on almost every university website featuring undergrads who are at least a decade and a half older. Too dumb? There are access courses and mountains of support available for free, let alone to enrolled students. Don’t have the time? Most part time learning courses suggest a time frame that roughly equates to one day a weekend and a couple of weeknights per week. Can’t afford it? Student Finance Wales offers grants and loans for that specific reason. It’s the entire reason for their existence. It’s too late now? Is it? Is it really? As much as I hate to admit it, my academic friend was right. I could do it.
Now I realise I’m in a privileged position. My family has grown older, and I earn a solid enough wage. But those words kept running through my brain like a cheetah on rollerskates. “You can do it”.
I could. It wouldn’t be easy. But I really could.
So why wasn’t I?
When I couldn’t find an answer, I decided to take the plunge. And almost immediately I discovered that I had been right about myself all this time. I am dumb. Dumb for not doing this sooner. For a start, applying to university and for financial support are both ridiculously easy. To the point that I had to stop myself multiple times to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. Even when I hit a stumbling block and couldn’t unlock my Student Finance Wales account, a quick call to their helpline resolved it in no time. Essentially, the most difficult thing was deciding what to study and where. Once that decision was made, the rest was no more complicated than filling out some forms and taking a deep breath while clicking submit.
Studying itself is a unique experience. By the nature of part time learning and distance courses, at times you’re very much a one person band, and have to motivate yourself to get the work done. And you have to choose the right course for you.
There’s a term known as “first generation” in academia. Basically, it means that neither of your parents went to university. It’s a category almost everyone I grew up with falls into. The reason I bring this up now is that some first generation students fall into the same trap that I fell into initially. And it’s this. You don’t have to study a subject that is deemed “worthy” just because it’s one that everyone has heard of or that will impress your family. Because, the reality is that all subjects are worthy. It’s just a case of finding one that you love. One that you’re passionate about. One that will challenge you, and that you’ll enjoy being challenged by. Somewhere out there is your subject. The one that fits you like a glove.
Even then it isn’t the easiest thing in the world, especially if you’re trying to juggle homelife, work commitments, and everything else life throws at you on an hourly basis. But, provided it’s something you love learning about, whatever that is, it can absolutely be rewarding.
And the rewards are not just about qualifications. It’s about growing. Developing. New experiences. Learning more about yourself. It’s a cliche, sure, but it is as much about realising your potential as anything.
For me, it’s about getting rid of my monkey. Which is still there as I write this. But it’s smaller now. It gnaws at me less often. And most importantly of all, it doesn’t scream anymore.
Author details: Gareth Davies is a father and undergraduate in Sociology at the Open University.