Issue III ~ Selwyn College Magazine Lent Term 2016 Mental Health Editor-In-Chief Georgina Ogilvie Sub-Editor Ayrton Dhillon Contributors by appearance: Georgina Ogilvie Anonymous Lindsay Malone Ayrton Dhillon John Bachelor Georgina interviews Amber Amour Michaela Hine Ellen McPherson Francis Scarr
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Editors’ Comments Honesty Saves Lives Money For Nothing No Fear Dark Narrow Street Notice More Guest Interview Beautifully Human Escape The Bubble Cultural Difference
Taboo ~
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adjective 1. prohibited or restricted by social custom. synonyms: forbidden, prohibited, banned, proscribed, vetoed, ruled out, interdicted, outlawed, not permitted, not allowed, illegal, illicit, unlawful, impermissible, not acceptable, restricted, frowned on, beyond the pale, off limits, out of bounds.
Hello, and welcome to the third and, my final, installment of The Kiwi. It has been a tremendous pleasure being editor. I want to take this last oppotunity to thank every contributor over the past year who has helped me achieve my vision. My time is over, but I leave the Kiwi with an article of my own: and this time it’s personal. What is not said often speaks volumes. Taboo itself is my subject. Silence feeds fear, and fear feeds ignorance, prejudice, and stigma. It is only through honesty that we can come to terms with ourselves, and the issues we face. It is only through honesty that coalitions between disenfranchised people can be formed. It is only through honesty that we can acknowledge and face the systems of oppression that surround us, together. In America, it’s black history month, and in the UK, it’s LGBTQI+ history month. My hope for the futures of these movements are for them to be intersectional. Every individual must undergo a constant journey of understanding one another. White people, straight people, ablebodied people, and cis-gendered people must do more to understand what it is to be erased, persecuted and disenfranchised on behalf of skin colour, sexuality, disability, mental health and gender. Only in this way can we expect to forge meaningful bonds between us and continue the work of Mia Mingus, Maya Angelou, Judith Butler, Kimberlé Crenshaw, and Laverne Cox to name just a few inspirations. Lets speak of the unspeakable. - Georgina Ogilvie
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I have spoken to many members of Selwyn College, many with their own story to tell about their experience and on-going struggle with mental health. Thankfully, people have been open and honest about how they feel – something rare in a world with much taboo around mental health problems, despite a whopping 1 in 4 young people in the UK experiencing suicidal thoughts. It’s also worth noticing the amount of people in the edition protected by anonymous status. Please respect this choice even if you may happen to recognise authorship. I have decided to openly discuss my own experience with anxiety and depression, including my recent decision to use medication. Hopefully this openness will make others feel it is okay to discuss their struggles which may in itself lesson the problem, but in order to make this happen, your reaction to the writing is crucial. I want this to be read with an element of self reflection on how you may react if a loved one sought help for a mental health problems and how each and every one of us will almost certainly be part of a support system for someone else and how we can best go about that.
As a disclaimer, my words are not representative of everyone going through anxiety or depression. Even if you have a beautiful life and you are overall happy and a cheerful person, you can still become depressed - just as you could break a bone or catch the flu. And that is okay because there is help out there! Just like a broken bone, or catching the flu, a specific set of medication is needed and usually, rest can make a difference. And just like not running on a broken foot, or stepping out in the cold with no coat on when you have the flu, putting yourself in stressful situations is bad idea until you have really had time to recover. The most important thing is that we all become aware of what anxiety and depression actually looks and feels like, and that we recognise it and support ourselves, and each other. I’m not sure if I was depressed before I moved to Cambridge but I’m fairly sure I always carried with me, somewhere, an underlying unhappiness or discontent. As I got older and more aware of myself, I experienced a terrible bout of homesickness and loneliness. Friendships I’d relied on for years and years of my childhood and teenage years suddenly seemed worlds away, and the family life I’d
grown accustomed to in my hometown was gone. It isn’t that my life was perfect before, it’s just that it was a drastic change of place and home - but also of support system. Whenever a support system is taken away, or collapses, that person is in more danger of becoming lonely and stressed. These things can contribute to mental health issues. If you know of someone undergoing a drastic change in their life, reach out to them. They may be doing fine, but just as likely, they may need extra support in that moment. Throughout my first year I just focused on getting to know the new city and adjusting to my work load. I did okay, I made friends, but I also experienced being as lonely as I’d ever been in my life, and as unsure of myself as ever. Like for most people, Cambridge was horribly intimidating to me. Lots of professors are on another level of niche knowledge and in a minute bubble of academia, with little interest in undergraduates. Most of the students here very loudly assert their intelligence and social status in one way or another. Most students are in reality too stressed to really connect to one another. College, for all it’s talk of a close-knit community can actually be a very lonely and at times, a severely unfriendly environment.
Supervisions are gruelling and praise is rare. I say these things not to attack the university or my college, but to actually be honest about how I have felt here, and how I know others have felt too. Some students have been incredible resources of comfort to me, and some professors, supervisors and tutors have shown genuine care about my well-being. These instances are far and few between however. By the time second year rolled around, I lost one of my closest friends who is now my girlfriend as she embarked on her year abroad. My faulty support system crumbled – consisting of friends I’d only known for a short time, professors who forgot my name and mostly intimidated me, and loving friends and family seemingly too far away from my hectic Cambridge deadline schedule was not able to offer the necessary daily support for the added pressure of supporting me through my feelings. Perhaps if it had never happened, I would have trundled along the way I did in first year, without testing my support system as rigorously as this, but the truth is that you can’t live life just hoping nothing bad will ever happen! A poor support system is an accident waiting to happen. Luckily, I don’t regret one
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second of it. I learnt more about myself in those months than I had in years of my childhood. All the negative things I thought about myself were not true whatsoever, but being forced to go to certain corners of my mind has given me perspective, and strength. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, but if it happens to anyone reading this – find the support you need and things will get better. Make those changes in life, even if it means leaving Cambridge or wherever and whoever makes you feel that way. It will get better, and once it does, those times will be a part of you in a different, more positive way. Suddenly, for the first time in my life, experienced simultaneous and debilitating depression and anxiety. I didn’t want to be anywhere but my room, or see anyone I didn’t have to. My sleeping pattern was awful, my diet was equally bad, I stopped connecting to people and, I withdrew from all the things that I was so deeply passionate about. Thankfully, after weeks, I ended up reaching out to the counselling service. I was in a situation where the one productive thing I managed to do all week was drag my unwashed dishevelled self to the University Counselling Service – but that was actually a smashing decision.
After just a few weeks, my anxiety lessoned, my head stopped going round in as many circles and negative spirals, and crucially, with the full support and understanding of my then girlfriend, I started to recover. The voice of someone who didn’t question my struggle, who didn’t dismiss how I felt, and who believed in me and my recovery made a huge difference. The counselling, however, was what really structured my understanding of what I was going through and therefore helped me structure my own recovery. You can never expect one person to be a whole support system, even if that person wishes they could be that. And truly, I feel that I learnt that the problem was created by me, in one sense, and could also begin to be solved within me as well. In hindsight, I needed medication but I hardly even considered it. Luckily, all these inputs in my life began to work. I tried to take it easy, and find peace but unfortunately, I also had exams to face. I understood I was recovering. I wasn’t willing to push myself too far - I’d learnt that my mental health had to come first. I stuck through it in the end, but to this day I know that if it happened to me now, I wouldn’t still be at this university because to push yourself
Georgina Ogilvie
through the gruelling process of deadlines, unforgiving and intense supervisions, the harsh social environment at a time when your mental health and self esteem is on the floor is not worth it. Graduation will be sweet but I will always question what goes on here at Cambridge. Thankfully, I was able to go away and take a long summer. I didn’t do anything that I thought would hinder what I hoped would be a full recovery for myself, and that was the best decision I ever made. My anxiety subsided almost completely. I am grateful for this but I have many friends who still struggle with it and now I concentrate on being understanding to them and sensitive in social situations, given that anyone I could meet might be going through something like that. I’m happy to have a beautiful living space in college and a family with enough income to support that. I’m lucky to have an intelligent, supportive and kind girlfriend who has helped me through my life. I love playing sport; it’s one thing that has anchored me through my three years here. Unfortunately, though, some days, I’m still struggling. It is only recently that I was diagnosed with depression and given
medication. The doctor was as understanding as I could have hoped for. I still hope for a full recovery, and I look to a time when I’m free from Cambridge, a place that has mainly symbolised stress to me. The things I have gone through have no doubt made me stronger and I’m prouder than I can say of who I am. I’ve had walls to break through - of internalised homophobia, of my own fear of mental health problems, to be true to myself and my emotions and realise that the world is, on the whole, an unforgiving place. These things eventually serve to make the good things more achingly beautiful. The journey is never finished. The most important thing we can do is strive for a different world, without stigma, without homophobia, without racism and sexism. Our most powerful tool to build this world with is our honesty. I also want to say that if you’re struggling in college, talk to each other. The chances are, the people around you have also felt how you’re feeling, at some point. We have to support each other.
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Money For Nothing: The Rise and Fall of a Gambling Addict
Odds checked; nominal sum staked, Choices verified by anonymous voices from across the world And voices of a trusted few After debate and discussion across common room tables: Add in my gut instinct. I know I’ll win this time... A social exploit uniting fans and friends, Building bridges, building solidarity Making a weekend more exciting. All casual. All under control. All above board. Just a hobby, nothing more I know I’ll win this time... Soaring elation! Victory! All lost now returned. One of the lucky few in profit, Beating bookies a talent, And winning the preserve of the intelligent The concept of luck a fallacy, a lie. I know I’ll win this time... Victory now elusive but a good sign Eventually the result will come in Losses are returned through perseverance The universe works that way, rewarding determination Trying, trying, trying and trying again I know I’ll win this time... Worrying now how far it’s gone. Money carried away in the stream of addiction. Not for the weekend anymore but every night. Games obscure and victories minor Losses must be won back, they must be; they have to be. I know I’ll win this time... Bank statement coming soon Watching the post like a hawk ready to grab it away Can’t let them know, they won’t understand They’ll intervene and prohibit: label me something I’m not Anyway, it’s ok - just about to win it all back I know I’ll win this time... £500’s gone, a holiday with a girlfriend, a new games console That brand-new phone I was saving up for Too much shame; they won’t love me anymore - nobody will Just over-thinking things, I’m not like those on TV Not drugs, not alcohol, not sex – nothing at all I know I’ll win this time... A teary call to a stranger on the walk to school Left house early to talk to an unknown person Searching for comfort, guidance, advice, hope, anything Begging her for rescue from the hole I’ve fallen into. There’s no wealth, no glory; TV adverts lie I don’t want to keep losing anymore...
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A personal mental health journey: Lindsay Malone
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I’m sitting on the grass at the top of Castle Hill, looking out as the setting sun casts a warm golden glow across the city, the only sound being the gentle whistle of the wind. I can see the tower of Great St Mary, and the long outline of King’s college chapel. In the distance I can make out the rather ugly grey tower of the UL. Hmm, maybe that’s not so pretty, but it really is a magnificent view. I like coming up here because it reminds me of when I went to Africa two years ago. The expansive views there were like nothing else: miles upon miles of golden sand, rock and desert. Choosing to spend those five weeks in Africa was probably one of the biggest and most spontaneous decisions I have made. In the weeks leading up to it I was excited, but also scared. I had no idea what to expect. I had only met the other people, with whom I would be living and camping in close proximity over the next month, briefly at one training weekend a few months earlier. And I had no idea what Africa would be like. I remember that first night that we camped out in the desert, hundreds of miles away from the nearest town, shop or phone signal. We
had to take it in turns to keep watch throughout the night, and I was on duty from 2-3am. It was bitterly cold, and I sat huddled in my sleeping bag, listening to the strange howls and cries of wild animals in the night. That was perhaps the most visceral, real fear I’ve ever felt. And yet, by the end of my time there, I absolutely loved being in the middle of nature, and had come to listen to and recognise, with excitement, each of those once unknown noises in the night. Fear is an intrinsic part of our evolution; it has helped us to evade predators and recognise threats. People can be scared for all sorts of reasons: walking home down a dark alleyway, or spotting a spider above your head. It can even be exciting, such as watching a scary film or going on the zip wire at Go Ape (if you haven’t been there, it’s amazing). But we can also get scared for very different reasons. Scared of public speaking. Scared of talking about something that makes you feel vulnerable. When I was 14 I had anorexia nervosa, which was part of several years of mental health problems. It took me a long time to feel
comfortable talking about it, and that was because of the fear of how others would react and how they might see me differently. Now, several years on, I talk openly about mental health, and the response is one of respect and empathy, and if there was one thing I wish I could tell my 14 year old self, it would be this; you are not alone. Mental health disorders are not something to be ashamed about, they are not a choice, and they are not something that should isolate a person. With this in mind I have started sharing my experiences both for those who are interested in understanding more about mental health, and for anyone who is going through challenges with their mental health and in particular an eating disorder, so that they know they are one of over a million people in the UK who experience this, all of whom deserve the help and support they need. I went to an all girls’ grammar school and as someone who wasn’t very interested in shopping or make-up or boys, I was different and I was bullied. Initially I tried hard to be someone I wasn’t, but after a
while I gave up on this and resigned myself to accepting the constant snide comments and remarks. I can remember watching in wonder as people listened to Taylor Swift on their MP3 players, read magazines and talked about alcohol, boys and sex, and other such designated teenage girl obsessions, and I would question why I was not like them. I was not the only one to be subject to this - my friends were too, and we tried to distance ourselves as much as possible from them. At lunchtimes we would go outside to climb the tree behind the car-park, or race each other across the school field, before collapsing onto the grass and gaze at the puffy white clouds as they drifted across a perfect, blue sky. My friends made school bearable, and for that I was grateful. In January year nine we chose our subject combinations for GCSE and it turned out I was taking all the same options as another girl in our friendship group, who quickly became my best friend. It was like discovering a long-lost twin, and we were inseparable. We were all the company we needed. But within a matter of weeks, she became very ill. At the time as a naive 14 year old who knew very little about mental health I could not
understand what she was going through, only that my closest friend was suddenly very horrible towards me. This was worse than any of the snide comments made by the others, because she had been someone I trusted. I became afraid to go near her and stopped sitting with our group of friends at lunchtimes. One grey, drizzling early February morning we had a P.E. lesson, and the teacher’s announcement that we would be doing cross country was met by groans of protest. There was nothing a group of school children, self-conscious of their appearance in the wind and rain, complained about more, than being forced to run cross country. In an attempt to inspire us, our P.E. teacher gave us an inspirational pep talk. I had always been rather apathetic towards P.E. lessons, but this time something in her talk resonated and I decided to try. I surprised myself, coming third out 60 people, and took up running. It soon became, however, a source of inflicting pain on myself, a punishment for being so pointless and so weak and so different. I can remember the first time this happened, and it was the first day of February half term week. Despite the thermometer
being in the negative, I forced myself to run out onto the bleak, empty brown fields near our house. It was raining heavily, the mud from the puddles splashing up my frozen legs, the cold air stinging my face and my lungs. My feet seemed to labour and I barely lasted 15 minutes before collapsing onto the cold brown earth. Moving was too much of an effort, so I huddled there in the cold until eventually mustering up the energy to make my way home. The next day I woke up with flu, and spent the week in bed. This marked the start of a long journey downhill. I started cutting out snacks, mostly because I was surrounded by a lot of talk about dieting at the time, and thought it would be a good idea even though looking back, it is clear I didn’t need to lose any weight. The food and exercise are what anorexia is most well-known for, but in reality this is only a surface, physical symptom and is actually rarely related to body image or a desire to look a certain way. Anorexia is really about a battle against yourself, a need for control when all else is falling apart around you and a drive and addiction like nothing else. For me, although the food and exercise seem like they are the main part of my story,
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they were only ever really a consequence of what was happening inside my brain. The rest of year nine floated by and before long it was the summer holidays. I had started to restrict how much and how often I could eat. I remember in particular one hot summer day when there was going to be a family barbecue in the garden. For everyone else this meant enjoyment, but for me the overwhelming feeling was fear. This is one of the more isolating but common aspects of mental ill-health. Every-day occasions that for many might be something to look forward to, can be very daunting for someone suffering with an eating disorder, depression or anything else. That morning I went out for a long bicycle ride with my brother, and hadn’t had breakfast because we were going to be having a large lunch. Bike rides with my brother were one of the few escapes, times I felt truly happy in that period of my life. One of the worst parts of mental illness was the fact that I felt like some sort of
freak. But not around my brother. My brother treated me just like he always had, as his sister, and that feeling of being treated like a normal human being was incredibly positive. Because I was still a normal human being and I was still me. Mental illness is not the individual; it is the disease that an unfortunate individual faces and has to live through. If someone had a broken arm or cancer you would still see them as the same person. On that bicycle ride we flew down the rolling, golden hills, savoured that sense of freedom and release. But then we got back home, and I only just managed to stumble up the stairs and shut my door before collapsing into a ball, doubled over at the pain in my abdomen. I was starting to suffer the physical effects of my illness, and I had never felt such pain, neither before nor since. With September came year ten and endless talk from teachers about working harder, achieving greater, pushing further as GCSE exams encroached. I was by
this time very ill, and when my sister became unwell with depression my illness sank further still. I can remember the frequent near-fainting, and learning to cover it by bending over to scratch my ankle every time I felt I was going to black out. I started swimming, 60, 80 lengths at a time. I hated it. I hated the cold wait at the bus stop in the dark. I hated the crippling self-consciousness as I stepped out into the pool area, the glaring lights and the air thick with the stench of chlorine. I hated the feeling of not being able to breathe as I rounded another corner to push through another length. I hated the dark grey under my eyes in the mirror when I took my goggles off. But most of all, I hated the cramps. They came in waves as I sat in the changing cubicle, like needles shooting through my feet. It felt as though I was walking around shrouded in an impenetrable fog. When your brain is starving it becomes foggy, and you can’t think straight or even see properly. I could no longer trust what my eyes saw when I looked
in the mirror. By the time Christmas Day came, with all of the food and the celebration and the comments about my size, I wished I were no longer alive. Anyone who has gone through mental illness and has been unfortunate enough to reach this point will know that this only comes from utter desperation and inability to see any hope of future. Anorexia has the highest mortality rate of any mental illness. But, there was still some residual light in my head that had not been extinguished, and from that day I started to recover. Christmas Day will always be special for me, because it is a reminder that there is always hope. I started to fight that day to gain back my life and, bit by bit, I did. Mine is just one story among many who have had all kinds of experience of mental ill-health. For the remainder of my time at secondary school I was having a long-lasting battle with eating and with how I saw myself, and it was in sixth form that I really started to get a lot better. Many people ask me when I recovered, and
I suppose I would say it was during this time. I learned to love myself again, I learned how wonderful other people can be and I learned just how strong and resilient I am as a person. Life always has ups and downs, and this is part of being human, because if life were happy all the time, we could not know what happy meant. But I have learnt a great deal about myself and others. If you ask any of my friends they would say I am a very smiley and positive individual, who tries to see the best in everything and in everyone, and this is one of the good things that have come from my experience. When I arrived at university I had promised myself I would act on turning negative into positive, and I became Head of Events on the Student Minds Cambridge committee, a student-run organisation that dedicates itself to promoting conversation about mental health and challenging any negative perceptions. Being part of this was an incredibly rewarding experience, and I
was fortunate to hear many people talk of their different mental illnesses, both past and current, and their stories of recovery. I also had the opportunity to promote the fact that mental health and physical health are no different from each other, that mental ill-health simply affects the brain as opposed to the arm or the lungs, and that it seems bizarre not to pay as much day-to-day attention to our mental health as we apply to our physical well-being. You might have noticed there are several reasons for the title of this article being “No Fear�, but the main reason is this: fear has at times been very dominant in my life, but I refuse to be embarrassed or scared to say what I believe in, because we all have the right to talk about and share who we are and our experiences. So let’s have that conversation about mental health; because being able to say these things should not make us fearful or different, but shows how strong we truly are.
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Ayrton Dhillon
I walk along this dark narrow street, The moon light blinding my face as it reflects off the little black puddles, This is relaxing, serene, beautiful… The air flows over my mouth, nose and ears, Friendly at first, but over time it freezes me over…inside and out. Can you hear that? If you listen closely, you can hear the wind crash into the leaves, The occasional branch crash into the floor, My numb feet crash into the soles of my tired trainers, My black, tired trainers, An orchestra of sounds. A cacophony in my head, yet melodic and organic to anyone else. It should be relaxing. It is not. I went hoping it would be, But instead it’s what I’ve been doing for the past 6 weeks, every night, religiously… I’m not sure why I keep doing it, But there’s always some sense of hope. Maybe this time it will be different, Maybe this time I will turn a corner and there it will be: I don’t know, what does a solution even look like? A person, time?, places, communities? Work? Instead I turn a corner and there it is: The same dark narrow street and the same damn noises, a reminder that nothing really changes, again, again and AGAIN. There was no light at the end of the tunnel, there was no light at the end of the dark, narrow road. So I stopped walking down it. And found a brighter street. Thank you for helping me find it. I’m sorry if I couldn’t help you find it too. I’m sorry.
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‘Notice More’
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It can be easy to theorize about the causes of a mental illness. When I started having more intense anxiety about a year ago, I associated it solely with existential dread about what I perceive to be a plausible extinction of humanity in the coming years (see Martin Rees’ Our Final Century for more details). However, as I tried different approaches to deal with my anxiety, I learnt much more about how complex the underlying factors are, and how much more power I have over my thoughts and feelings than I have over humanity’s fate! Perhaps as a typical Cambridge student, I trust in evidence such that if someone uses evidence to argue that a certain activity should make me happy, I’m more likely to feel happy when doing it. Perhaps this is a Placebo effect, but even so, I found it useful to actually read about some of
the things that tend to improve wellbeing. The New Economics Foundation undertook a wonderful project called Five Ways to Wellbeing (used by organisations including the NHS), outlining five evidencebased actions which tend to promote wellbeing: Connect - cultivate strong relationships with those around you Be Active - exercise, in a way you find enjoyable Take Notice - be curious in what is going on around and within you Keep Learning - develop a new, or older, skill Give - volunteer your time or money for causes you value There are seemingly simple ways to carry out some of these: for example I’ve made sure to make time to be with those close to me (1), I’ve tried to exercise more often (2), I’ve been able to take courses in topics that genuinely interest
me (4) and I was already a member of Giving What We Can, an organisation whose members pledge to give 10% of their income to effective charities (5). However, it is number 3, Take Notice, which for me has for me proved most interesting. Applicable on many levels, the act of taking a step back and noticing the processes in my life has made me able to be more curious and mindful, and to make more intelligent choices. One part of this for me was joining a mindfulness class. The skills learnt there have helped me in ways I simply did not expect. Beyond an ability to appreciate our environment far more, it is sometimes only when we stop to take notice that we can become mindful of our general mood and our bodily tension. Regular practice of mindfulness allowed me to become aware of how stressed I
By John Bachelor am on a day-to-day basis. Some chance recommendations led me towards more direct action to deal with this. (As frustrating as time procrastinating on Facebook can be, a chance link shared by an obscure friend can, sometimes, have the greatest of impacts.) I have always had a love-hate relationship with being organised, quite possibly because I had never learnt how, so with strategic Christmas presents: Getting Things Done by David Allen and The LifeChanging Magic of Tidying, I have began to see organisation and de-stressing the mind as a highly-rewarding art. For example, the simple act of writing down our next project actions in an effective and trusted system frees the mind from needing to constantly remind you of an approaching essay or exam, and can allow
it to focus on what is going on right now. Finally, there was certainly a philosophical element for me. In a largely postreligious society, one which talks very little about things such as life and death, it is perhaps more difficult to find an anchor for our worrying thoughts and restless minds. The narrow neoliberal mindset, informed by an Enlightenment sensibility, that lies behind much of our public discourse is one that simply looks to future ‘progress’ without a great appreciation of the present or past, one that emphasises the self above the collective, and one that exploits our Darwinian competitiveness without sufficiently cultivating values of social responsibility. It can easily occupy our collective consciousness, closing out other ‘alternative’ ways of seeing
the world. For me, not only do some of these alternative visions appeal more to our human inclinations, but they more accurately relate to the world around us. (Feel free to chat with me if you’re interested!) This is when I admit the title of this article was a bit misleading: I doubt that we can really control the quantity of thoughts we have - instead by engaging with some of the meta-thinking I’ve outlined, we can get some control over the quality of our thoughts. For me that’s as empowering a thought as any.
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G: HELLO Amber! Thank-you so much for speaking to The Kiwi! I am a huge fan. Could you summarise some of the things you do as an activist? A: I stand for peace, love, and equality as an activist. In 2014 I started a campaign in New York City called #StopRapeEducate that quickly became a global movement. I’m currently in San Francisco working on teaching healing to survivors. G: Since your journey has been so long and varied, what has surprised you most about attitudes you’ve come across from different people and different places? What reactions do you get?
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A: I get a variety of reactions some of the worst ones include: I once heard a woman say, “I make rape jokes all the time. Life is too short to be sad about it.” & I was approached in NYC by a gay guy in his mid-20s and he said he had been molested by his best friend’s dad when he was a child. He told me that I shouldn’t be speaking up about rape and that he hoped I got raped again. There are far more positive responses. I’ve meet thousands of survivors who were simply relieved that someone was speaking up about it. G: Some of your campaigns, particularly the one on body hair has received a lot of attention. It seems as though one of the keys to your opening of the conversation is honesty. You were open about how at first body hair seemed bad to you too, and you explained how you not only changed your mind, but the decision to keep your body hair has empowered you. What else do you think is key to your movement? A: I think visibility is key in the body hair movement which is why I started he hashtag #FlowersOfChange on Instagram so that other body-confident women can rock their body hair and share their reasons behind letting it grow (or not). Letting our hair grow is not about converting others, it’s just self-expre ssion and we are letting other women know that it’s okay to love and embrace their body hair, too. G: Alongside our poem in this edition about another’s struggle with gambling addiction, in what ways did your negative relationship with alcohol change your perspective on life? And how did it change your feminism? A: I had no idea that a 20-something-year-old could be an alcoholic. When I thought of alcohol abuse I thought of my uncle who lost his job, teeth, and
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family because of drinking too much. I never though that someone young & beautiful like me could be addicted. I thought I was just having fun until I realized I was making decisions that I wouldn’t have had I been sober. Quitting alcohol has revolutionized my feminism because I feel more in control of my body, mind, and spirit. It has help me grow into a stronger woman because in my clear-mindedness I can do anything. Alcohol makes me weak for days after drinking. I have also been forced to confront the dozens of issues I was trying to suppress through booze. I have grown immensely. I self-harmed with drinking for so many years. I love my new life now and I’m never going back! G: I want to say thank-you for doing what you do in a public way. It allows me and other people to take strength from your words. However, the internet can be such an unforgiving place, do you ever feel like you just want to withdraw to protect yourself from some of the vitriol you receive? A: I do what I need to do for self-care. It’s important for me to maintain a high vibration to continue the work I do. There’s no stopping me. Negativity will never shut me down. G: What would be your message to the young people in England, Cambridge attending the University? Or what would be your message to the young women and non-binary community (and allies!) in the feminist societies around Cambridge trying to work through some of the issues of the world? A: My message to you is this: your voice is important and the world needs to hear what you’ve got to say. By staying silent, you are choosing the side of the oppressor. They have been winning for far to long. YOU ARE THE ANSWER. YOU are the key to the love revolution. To stop violence, we must eliminate rape culture. To get rid of rape culture, we must replace it with consent culture- a world where survivors are supported for speaking up, where our justice systems can live up to their names, and where asking first is normalized. We CAN make the world a better place but it takes teamwork to make the dream work! G: Last but not least, what is your music at the moment? A: I don’t think it’s a famous or mainstream song. They are words of a poem and someone put a tune to it. I heard this song at a healing ceremony a few days ago and it has been stuck in my head ever since. The words go like this: “There is so much magnificence / In the ocean/ The waves are coming in / The waves are coming in” For more information about my work, check out my pages! Instagram: @ambertheactivist & @creatingconsentculture Twitter: activistamber Facebook: Amber The Activist
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“What’s wrong?” “When did this all begin?” “What was it that caused this?” “You’re better now though, aren’t you?” “You seem like you’ve beaten it now, am I right?” “What have you learnt from this all?”
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I’ve been presented with all of the above questions regarding my depression. The second question was actually asked by my GP: he was convinced that I had been abused, or that I had suffered a bereavement, and couldn’t begin to consider the possibility that the depression had come out of nowhere. He saw the effect, and he needed a cause. He was expecting me to suddenly come out with a deeply-repressed childhood memory, to link this to my current struggles, then receive counselling, and come out the other side, fully healed and free from depression. But I couldn’t give this answer, because it wasn’t the case. I had no idea when or why it had begun, but I knew that nothing particularly traumatic had happened to me. Did that mean that I was making it all up? Was I being melodramatic? Was my life ‘too good’ for me to suffer from depression? In the same way that people told me that there simply had to be a definitive cause to all of this, they also searched for a solution. Something that would ‘solve’ the problem within a couple of months. Maybe counselling, maybe meeting up with me for a few coffees, maybe CBT, maybe medication. I felt like they expected it all to be better within a few months, worst case scenario within a year. But, here I am, almost six years later, and I’m still on medication, I’m still receiving regular counselling, and I still struggle - pretty much on a daily basis - with my mood and anxiety levels. Have I done something wrong? Have I tried enough? I have tried - I’ve been receiving counselling and taking medication since the
beginning, and I’ve been trying to actively address all of this for years now. So what is wrong with me? People trying to find a definitive cause or a quick solution to my depression has sometimes come across to me as them putting my depression into a box. A box that could be neatly put away and could disappear forever when the time was right. A box that I could only bring out in certain conversations, and only over the period of a year or so; after that I would have gone on about it for too long and I would need to give it a rest. A box that could be discussed during Week Five and solved with a lighter workload or chocolate in my pigeon hole, but couldn’t possibly exist in weeks outside of that.* This is assuming that depression is something that is black and white. That it is something that can happen overnight and then goes away after a week or so. But it’s not. It’s not something that can be solved easily using a simple equation (for example, 40 hours of counselling + 6 months of medication = completely fine), and it’s not something that can be easily defined. Sometimes, I wish that it was, that there were two clearly separated states that you could be in: either depressed, or not depressed; either struggling severely, or completely free from it all. Struggling severely would be very difficult, but at least you’d be at rock bottom: it’s all up from there. Because, according to such a model of depression, once you’re out of this rock-bottom place, you’re free from it completely. I would prefer to have this, to be able to say to people in my life that I once suffered from depression, but that I’ve ‘come out the other side of it now’. I would go through the lowest of the lows, if it meant that the alternative was complete freedom. It’s not like that. Depression is hazness. It begins subtly, and can often take years to develop and show itself. It doesn’t have a clear solution,
By Michaela Hine
and victories can often be followed by setbacks. It’s not just about what you see in films, or on TV, or in the headlines, where the sufferer is found in a state of crisis, suffers a breakdown, and then, after this one ‘rock-bottom’ day, finds that life is on the up for them, and that they are, slowly but surely, recovering. Films don’t show the mundane reality of depression: the daily struggle to do something productive, the apathetic glaring at the laptop screen for hours on end, the constant feeling of lethargy and tiredness. (Because that would be a long, and fairly uneventful, film.) Sometimes the hardest thing about depression is that, just as it has no clearly defined beginning, it also has no clear end. You can get to a place where you’re able to function in life and do things that everyone else is able to do, but you still are very much aware that you’re doing these things with the weight of depression on your shoulders. When I, along with those around me, think of mental health as black and white - either ‘fine’ or ‘not fine’ -, it’s easy for me to consider myself a failure. I’ve been in this greyness for most of my adolescence, and sometimes I think that I’ll never find my way out, that I’ll never find myself in the black/white/‘happy and recovered’ place. And then my thoughts progress to: ‘Will I ever come off of my medication?’/’Will I ever be free from anxiety?’/’Will I ever learn to accept myself?’. This is when I have to step back, and stop allowing my thoughts to tumble ahead and dwell on the unknown. I need to stop focusing on the end result or the ‘bigger picture’, and focus instead on where I am now. I can think about the things that I have done, the small victories that I have achieved, and the things that I am able to do each day at the moment, rather than thinking about how far away I am from being ‘recovered’. Congratulating myself for getting out
of bed, getting showered, going to a lecture, sending an email, making my bed etc…They may be small things, but they’re still something, and it’s a lot better than staying in bed all day, which is what I often want to do. By considering what I have done, rather than dwelling on what I haven’t, I end up feeling more confident in myself, a lot more loving towards myself, and, as a result, my mind is a lot stronger for the day ahead. When I think about how much progress I’ve made, I’m less concerned with the fact that I’m so far from the ‘finish line’ of my depression. For now, I’m happy to be in the present, even if it is grey and a bit messy. There may be a lot of confusing emotions in my grey and hazy mind, but perhaps it’s okay to feel lots of emotion. Nobody wants a cold, perfectly-composed, robotlike human. It’s okay to be a bit of a mess. I think that there’s something beautifully human in that.
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At Student Minds Cambridge, we’re running our #notjustfive campaign. This is a campaign to improve welfare provisions across Cambridge, and to end the notion of ‘week 5 blues’, by instead emphasising that all weeks can be difficult for students and that stress, although it can certainly contribute to poor mental health, should not be considered the sole cause of mental health issues. To keep up-to-date with the campaign, check out our Facebook page - Student Minds Cambridge.
By Ellen McPherson
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As far as Cambridge terms go, Lent is always the worst. Michaelmas shimmers with fresh excitement. The influx of first years yet to be tainted by Kuda’s sweaty floors; the naïve hope that ‘this will be the year’ I (a) have a constant supply of in-date milk; (b) hand an essay in before the deadline; (c) manage to say no to the ‘4 for £10’ VK offer; and the magic of Christmas to tide me through when all these ambitions inevitably fail. Easter term offers us the sheer euphoria of May Week – a period of such unadulterated bliss that somehow manages to blur all memory of the previous eight weeks. Then there is Lent. Sandwiched in the middle: not quite the beginning, but not close enough to the end. The weather is colder, the days seem longer and everything duller. These feelings seemed to
increase ten-fold for my friends and I in our 2nd year, given that we had reached the mid-point of our degrees. Couple this with the typical intensity of a Cambridge term, and the result was a general lack of motivation, interest and enjoyment. So, I set myself a challenge: to escape the bubble as many times and in as many ways as possible. Doing so provided much-needed perspective that life continues out-with University boundaries. As cliché as it may sound, there is more to life than your degree, and sometimes all it takes is a five-minute cycle to a different setting to realize this. Moreover, I find a change of scene greatly beneficial for my mental health, and hopefully sharing my experience of Cambridge’s hidden gems will inspire others to follow suit. There are still many places within, and without, Cambridge that I’m yet
to visit but these few hotspots are my top recommendations for getting a refreshing, non‘University of Cambridge’ vibe. Granchester: Famed for its green pastures and dreamy skies, it is easy to see why Pink Floyd dedicated a 7 minute long track to the wistful romance of Granchester Meadows. Situated a fifteenminute cycle away from Selwyn, this escape is close enough to be enjoyed even just as part of a library-break. If I’m feeling down, nothing lifts my spirits quite like fresh-air and friends – a trip to Granchester offers a chance to combine the two. Take a walk along the Cam, or stop off at one of its many pubs. A personal favourite is The Green Man: cosy and traditional inside, with an extensive beergarden out-back. The welfare benefits of walking are wellknown, and the aesthetic
pleasure of Granchester’s and pretty terraced houses. Mill scenery does wonders for a Road offers a level of vibrancy down-trodden mood. unfounded in other areas of the city, and a much needed alternative to the collegiate Mill Road: To the South-East of the city- dominance of Cambridge’s centre lies Mill Road. Described centre. once by Ali Smith as the “real spine of Cambridge”, Mill Road London: offers an eclectic mix of shops, Taking a leap away from cuisines and cultures that are nearby areas of Mill Road a far cry from the ‘pale and and Granchester, the lure of stale’ traditions of Cambridge London’s indisputable buzz is University. For example, if you hard to resist. The benefits of want to invigorate your cooking a day-trip to London are twovisit the Mill Road’s food-stores fold. On the one hand, its sheer for a choice far broader than size offers a wealth of activities that offered by Sainsbury’s and distractions from Uni Sidney Street. Or, if you’re life. On the other, the hectic looking for tunes that deviate nature of the capital can lead from a Wednesday Cindies’ to a greater appreciation of playlist, have a browse in the a quiet collegiate setting. No charity shops where my Dad brief summary of London will has found many hit records. do it justice, but there are still Branching off Mill Road’s main bubbles to be escaped even in artery are various residential one of the world’s largest cities. On a recent visit, I went streets, home to amazing pubs – such as the Kingston Arms – on an Alternative Walking-
Tour of East London; partly as research for a piece of coursework, but also to see a side of the capital that didn’t include the London Eye, Big Ben, and Tower Bridge. The juxtaposition between Cambridge’s untainted architecture and Brick Lane’s colourful walls was immediately apparent. Street art covered every nook and cranny in the East End; the works were expressions of political intent, but foremost expressions of emotion; of hatred towards the gentrification of their area; of love towards Brick Lane’s cultural diversity. These London street artists were stretching and redefining boundaries, something I believe would benefit Cambridge students. Take a couple of hours each week to broaden your horizons: to escape the bubble. A change of scene can really help towards a change of mood.
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By Francis Scarr
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Having now lived in the Ural mountains’ industrial powerhouse of Yekaterinburg for almost five months, through general observations and conversations with Russians themselves, I have begun to grasp what it is which makes this country so radically different from the UK. My experiences here have allowed me to jettison a number of the stereotypes and preconceptions with which I arrived, through being enlightened on the true nature of Russia and the lives of the people I have met, in ways I had not anticipated. The social, political, and economic misunderstandings of Russian culture are in part founded on constructions of nationality – some of which include mental health issues, such as coping methods, emotional openness on one end of the scale, and homelessness and alcohol addiction on the other. One of the more superficial differences between British and Russian culture often featuring in any discussion on this subject is the Russian reluctance to smile. The truth of the matter is that Russians display their emotions in a more honest and direct manner than we do. A Russian would never smile out of politeness in the manner that we would, preferring to use this particular emotional signal to indicate contentment, humour or hospitality. This obviously engenders the archetype of the
frowning and unhelpful shop assistant or hotel receptionist encountered by many Western tourists during their time in Russia. If one is however fortunate enough to befriend a Russian, this preconception will swiftly be cast off by overt and almost ostentatious exhibitions of hospitality, as well as a more sincere interest in guest’s affairs than is usually the case in the UK. In Russian culture, to conceal one’s emotions is seen in a particularly negative light, standing in contrast to the British understanding of the ‘stiff upper lip’, something many imagine represents an honourable aversion to lumbering others with one’s problems. Russians, however, are generally encouraged to open up to others with their concerns, even if it does mean forcing somebody else to shoulder an emotional burden. Interestingly, among Russians it is seen as a positive quality to spend all of one’s money, something which differs from the encouragement we usually encounter to save and lay economic foundations for a prosperous life. Most stereotypes of Russia involve vodka, and the situation here regarding alcohol actually differs slightly from what one might expect. In the UK, about 7% of men die before reaching 55. In Russia this figure is over 25% and largely a result of their male
drinking culture. A friend even offhandedly mentioned to me that her father had once been constantly drunk for an entire month. However, among Russians, a student drinking culture simply does not exist, and a much higher proportion of young people are tee-total than in the UK, something arguably caused by a desire not to succumb to the same vices as their grandfathers and fathers. Perhaps more significantly, my time in Russia has endowed me with a more thorough understanding of Russian society and exactly where people here see themselves in the world order. Under the socialism of the Soviet Union, class structure was attacked and the legacy of this remains evident even today. Unlike in the UK where someone’s background can often be determined within seconds by ascertaining the nature of their accent, the Russian language, admittedly counter-intuitively given the enormity of the Russian territory, contains almost no variation and gives little indication as to the socioeconomic status of the speaker. This of course is partially a result of the Soviet Union’s insistence on conformity. Class-based cultural differences simply cannot be found in Russia to any extent similar to those of the UK, meaning that following the collapse of the USSR, the only manner by which to distinguish
people in this sense is their level of wealth. Given that the levels of wealth inequality are significantly more severe than those we suffer from at home (whilst not wishing to dismiss entirely our own social injustices), many Russians will tell you that they all suffer in equal poverty while a small group of oligarchs enjoys a colossal amount of wealth. The rouble’s crash has left Russians outside of Moscow with an average salary of around £3000 (according to Forbes), and whilst the cost of living in Russia is admittedly a lot lower than in the UK, this figure truly pales in comparison to the $14.4b net worth of Alisher Usmanov and $9.1b of Roman Abramovich, names familiar to anyone with a vague interest in football. The uncomfortable truth regarding most Russian businessmen is that they simply seized the state assets left abandoned when the monolith of the Soviet Union collapsed. Nowadays we see such businessmen either patronised by Putin and the Russian state or living abroad and often suffering an ignominious end such as that befalling Aleksandr Perepilichny and Boris Berezovsky. Despite the Soviet Union being no more than a rotting totalitarian carcass in its final years, many older Russians look back on it rather fondly as a time when they understood their role in society, and were
guaranteed free healthcare, education, a job and a modest apartment. This existence was sharply disrupted in the 90s by the IMF’s decision to employ shock-therapy on Russia’s economy, and the capitalist system that has now consumed the socialist wreckage is far less generous in its output of welfare. One unmitigated reminder of this is the form assumed by homelessness today. Whilst the majority of homeless in the UK, and the West in general, are young to middle aged persons who for whatever reason have lost their economic footing in life, the vast majority of homeless in Russia are elderly women widowed by their alcoholic husbands, and left abandoned by a state providing woefully insufficient pensions. Of course most British views on Russia are normally blemished by what is perceived as genuine reluctance to be part of the world’s liberal progression towards universal acceptance in society. To some extent the usual stereotypes of racism and homophobia are unfortunately true, but to simply denounce a whole country for these backward vestiges of the past does not help anybody. Trying to find the roots of this problem is a much more useful task. In short, it would seem that Putin has exploited Russian insecurities left over from the Soviet past to reinforce his own position.
He claims to protect his people from a supposed decline of values in the West, thus both ensuring the support of older conservatives unwilling to confront newly-born notions of free will, and simultaneously provoking militantly jingoistic views among the young and ignorant. In fact, some political commentators have even gone so far as to suggest that his incitement of homophobia is disingenuous and merely a political expedient. Russia’s problem with racism is a particularly strange one given that the country itself is home to over 160 ethnicities and indigenous groups who for the most part live in harmony with ethnic Russians. This, I would hazard, is again a result of jingoistic views being at worst actively fostered, or at best conveniently ignored by the state in aid of strengthening its own position. All in all, Russian people struggle with very different forefronts of socioeconomic problems. One of the most productive things we can do is deconstruct some of the differences between us, to better understand each other rather than just project, or characterise. Perhaps we can take a more Russian approach to emotional honesty, and the smiles may be fewer in number, but meaning more.
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