This weekend I turn 29, and will have just one year left before I turn thirty, at which point I think I may have to finally become a proper grown up. Unfortunately IÔÇÖm planning a step which will set me back.
This is my second stint at uni, having got a BA in Film Studies back in ÔÇÖ07. As degrees go it wasnÔÇÖt the best, and I found myself unemployed and living with my parents after graduation. There isnÔÇÖt much demand for film studies graduates in Swansea. Who knew?
I worked a few different jobs, none of which particularly thrilling, and after four years as a support worker I decided to come back to uni to study nursing.
I figured I could be good at it – IÔÇÖm compassionate and laid back so that I can take most things in my stride and keep my head under pressure.
I made the enquiries and applied. I loved that I was taking control of my life and building towards a future that would have meaning.
I also loved how people reacted to my announcement. People respected it, and I could tell my family were proud of me. Let me tell you something, the glow you get when your parents are proud of you doesnÔÇÖt fade as you get older. In fact, at 27, I was happy to see it again.
IÔÇÖve never been in serious trouble, but I have a string of poor decisions and debts that ensure that IÔÇÖm the screw up of my family. My three sisters, who I love, are at times infuriatingly perfect. TheyÔÇÖve all got firsts from universities, and found their niche in life, while causing my parents very little hassle over the years.
Compared to three fleeces of pure white my grey, stained one ensures IÔÇÖm the black sheep. The fact that IÔÇÖm the only one who has stopped going to church doesnÔÇÖt help this.
So, uni and nursing made me feel good about myself, and my parents happy. They were even willing to help take some of the financial strain and offer a helping hand whenever I needed one.
Being back at uni was a blast. Sure, I was ten years older than my flatmates and so nicknamed ÔÇ£granddadÔÇØ, but IÔÇÖd won the flatmate lottery again and quite liked the relaxed student life again.
Sure, the course was kicking my ass. It had been six years since IÔÇÖd set foot in a lecture hall and the barrage of science thrown my way left me utterly confused. The last time IÔÇÖd been in a science lesson weÔÇÖd all thought Britney Spears was still a virgin, so a lot of what I was hearing may as well have been in Chinese.
Similarly the 9-3 days of lectures were a shock to the system, back in the day IÔÇÖd done less than 10 hours a week, which included watching two movies.
But I knuckled under and struggled to readjust to taking notes and writing assignments, willing myself on with the promise of placements and the end goal of being a qualified nurse.
Last week I started my second placement and halfway through a shift I stood before a mirror looking at myself, dressed in the purple scrubs which had seen me nicknamed Tinky Winky.
And then it hit me. One single phrase, which I havenÔÇÖt been able to shake since.
I donÔÇÖt want to be a nurse.
I tried to tell myself that I was tired, or freaking out because of the placement, but like the chorus to ÔÇ£Let It GoÔÇØ it was wedged in my head, and hard to shake. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed like the truth.
Do I want to be doing this for the next 30+ years? Will I be happy getting out of bed at 5am to spend hours on wards, underpaid and stressed? Will I even be a good nurse? IÔÇÖm compassionate and try to be kind, but IÔÇÖm easily worn down over time, and if anythingÔÇÖs going to get to you itÔÇÖs the grind of working in the NHS.
But what the hell will I do instead?
Go back home to live with my parents and go back to my old job? A job that by the end I loathed and left me tired and depressed?
Find a new job? Working in a shop, or call centre?
ItÔÇÖs a living, but itÔÇÖs not the life I thought IÔÇÖd have.
I think when weÔÇÖre young we all think that weÔÇÖre going to grow up to make a difference, to live an exciting life. But IÔÇÖm not an idiot, IÔÇÖve realized I wonÔÇÖt save the world from the brink of disaster, or thrill a crowd of thousands at a festival or score the winning try for Wales at a World Cup.
But I donÔÇÖt think I can happily just grind out an existence in a simple job.
I still have my dreams. IÔÇÖve always wanted to travel, to see the world and try new experiences. The fact is IÔÇÖve only really wanted one job since I was a teenager. To be a writer.
ItÔÇÖs why IÔÇÖm typing this now. ItÔÇÖs why IÔÇÖve blogged for eight years. Hell, even my nursing daydreams involved me writing a book of my experiences working for the Red Cross or in A&E. Writing is the one constant that has stayed in place since my teens – crushes, daydreams, fantasies have changed, but in all that time if given an opportunity to work any job IÔÇÖd have picked a journalist, the only thing thatÔÇÖs altered is what kind of stuff IÔÇÖd like to write about.
Ideally IÔÇÖd stay in Cardiff, and study journalism. Scribble pieces for gair rhydd or Quench and build and improve my skills so that I could make a living writing.
But I canÔÇÖt afford that, especially as I wouldnÔÇÖt have a student loan.
IÔÇÖll head home, move back in with mum and dad, and spend the next year or so bumping into people and having to explain what IÔÇÖm doing back, all while I work at whatever job I can get.
This weekend IÔÇÖll mark my birthday by telling my parents IÔÇÖm going to drop out, that the debt and hassle has been for nothing. And that IÔÇÖll be living with them again.
And then I have to tell my new friends they need to find a new flatmate.
Happy birthday to me.
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