I translated this poem, the Ballad of the Smoke-filled Carriage, by Aleksandr Kochetkov, having read the original on the train up from Oxford back to Edinburgh, for the 2nd Semester of my 2nd Year at University, which I am now steadily staring down the barrel of a 2nd Class degree for.
No, there is still a possibility to save the grade. I will book meeting with the Institute of Academic Development. I will talk to my tutors and lecturers. I will go to Peer Support sessions. I will speak with those getting firsts. I refuse to fall.
I was talking to my schoolfriend about this today. I remembered how, when we met, when I was at school, I had struggled, but achieved straight As, pretty much. It was the top school in the country. When told that my grade for Biology was not enough for me to pass onto the 2nd year of the A Level (it was a C and D subject, because I didn’t like it, more than anything else) I bumped it up to getting the 3rd highest mark in my cohort of 100 people. All of this was whilst I was dealing with the difficulty of living with my grandmother, who found fault in all I did and with whom I lived independently (like a university student), felt ostracised, was dealing with my heart being torn between two boys (and not being able to set clear boundaries with a third), preparing for a play, editing a magazine, and missing my parents who were all the way in New Zealand. That was at the point where things had started to look up. Before that, I had acted as therapist to two of my friends, dealt with toxic rumours and a friend who was determined that I was the love of his life (but simultaneously an awful human being), had to prove I wasn’t going off the rails to my teachers, and, as a result of putting everyone else first, was cooking and cleaning for myself after 10pm, starting my three or so hours worth of homework after 12pm, and heading off to sleep at 3am, to rise again at 6 or 7am. Pastoral care was frankly awful, although my Head of Sixth Form did talk to my elder half-sisters about ensuring that my grandmother was keeping me warm. It wasn’t really their job, I suppose. I’m thankful they did.
Don’t worry, reader, I have a much better relationship with my grandmother now.
My drama teacher saved my life, and my friends, although they didn’t know it. Towards the end, my sister would have me round on the weekends, too. That helped, so much. Going back to visit my parents in NZ, though infrequent, was also a godsend.
Trigger warning: Suicide.
I went through something like Hell. I sometimes wanted to die. I remember one night very clearly where I fought off the the thought of just ending it all like I was fighting every sinew and lightning of the Devil himself. No one knew. I did it.
My friend said “You’re burnt out.”
What? Shall I be burnt out for the rest of my life because of fighting for my life in Lower Sixth?
It was Hell, and still one of the best years of my life, oddly. Simultaneously.
I soldiered. I am frustrated I can’t soldier as I did, with so much demanded of me, little fraud that I am, who once proved herself, but dammit, I’ll try so I will.
Strength and courage to you, Friends.
At Least Afloat 