Turkeys voting for Christmas

As a British expat, who has resided in Belgium for a little over a year now, the thought that’s taken up residence in the back of my mind for quite a while now is, ‘what will Brexit do?’

‘What will it do to my rights to remain in Europe?’
‘What will it do to my job prospects?’
‘What will it do to my way of life?’

In my heart I’m European, but on my passport I’m British.

Growing up in London, I was exposed to the melting pot of cultures, that makes it such a beautiful, wonderful city. A diverse city of differing but shared ideas of multicultural acceptance, but following the Brexit referendum in 2016, I saw that melting pot image harden. As seeds of hate planted through a campaign trail, born from fabrication and false promises, took root, watered by the demonisation of immigrants and the less fortunate to cover up the consequences of austerity, that had mined our public services, leaving them as husks of their former selves.

In March 2019, I braced myself for the worst, two years of back and forth bickering leading us off a cliff’s edge without a paddle, or so it seemed. However, with each deadline extension, I started to gain new hope. I thought for a moment that perhaps we would stay as part of this union, which is far from perfect, but holds true in its missions and values in the shared interest of peace, defenders of them many not the few.

Although, now, almost nine months later, from that initial leave date, I began my morning abruptly woken by a 4am news alert from my BBC News app. A declaration that hope was lost. A Conservative Party victory, that has now sealed our fate. Led by the demagogue figure of Boris Johnson, who will inevitably lead my home down the path of maximum destruction under the guise of freedom, and taking back control.

You may argue that in the name of democracy, that it is the will of the people and must be respected, and perhaps my thoughts and feelings exist in an echo chamber of like mindedness. If my social media feed is anything to go by, this is definitely true.

Looking out over the grey and rain filled streets of Brussels, I know that I live in and work in a bubble. However, my beginnings on a council owned housing estate in Hackney, have remained with me, as I climbed the ladder of society, now comfortably existing amongst the middle classes, and I fear what is coming.

We’ve all read or seen the news stories of the victims of austerity, thousands of societies most vulnerable being forced into dire situations, as their basic human rights and needs are not met, many cases costing them their lives. The elderly will suffer. The disabled will suffer. The poor will suffer. The NHS will most likely be privatised. All in the name of control and the will of the people, have we forgotten our humanity?

In times like this, where I’m forced into questioning the reasoning of reality, I’m reminded of Book Six, of Plato’s The Republic, where he recalls Socrates conversation with Adeimantus, highlighting the flaws of democracy – drawing comparison between society and a ship and asking if you were heading out out on a journey by sea, would you want anyone or someone educated in how to properly run the vessel – naturally Adeimatus responded in favour of the latter.

As although, kind in concept, the rise in reality star culture has made a mockery of the very word that is democracy, with improper or minimal education available to the voting masses, rational has been lost, as single issue politics takes flight fuelled by populist notions, of us vs them, without a second thought to consequences or repercussions.

As I watched the ticker flicking across the bottom of my television screen, interrupted by phone notifications from shocked friends and family, both in the UK and in my residing country, I watched as historically strong Labour and Liberal Democrat seats swung from red and yellow to blue. Constituencies with strong union pasts, and integrated migrant communities, seemingly voting against their best interests, like turkeys voting for Christmas or slugs for salt, to be ruled under a mandate won by hate and fear. To get Brexit done, whatever the price may be.

Dry eyes, dry January

This year I celebrated the first New Year’s in at least five years where I haven’t cried. From ill timed breakups to breakdowns New Year’s Eve 2013 – 2017 have each been unhappy milestones in my history – especially the year where I got food poisoning and spent the countdown alone in a pitch black room clutching my stomach in pain, whilst my then boyfriend sat celebrating in the room next door.

However, this year despite a rocky past few months, which was catalysed into overdrive in the last few weeks of December due to work and personal events I was determined not to repeat history. I was determined not to cry or find a reason to cry as 2019 chimed in (accompanied by a remix of the Auld Lang Syne).

Firstly, I spent it with friends, my best friends, the ones who have been there through thick and thin and would probably die for me (and even take a rail replacement bus service on a Sunday during the holiday season) just to see me happy. We booked tickets in advance to a bar event on the other side of the river, arriving early to avoid disappointment and loading up on carbs, to avoid ringing in the New Years hugging a toilet bowl while your mascara mixes with tears, alternating between apologising and heaving your guts out.

Drinking sensibly and surrounded by the people I love, I allowed myself to enjoy the moment, something I had forgotten how to do; I danced, I laughed, I took way too many selfies, and for the first time in a long time I had fun. I felt happy, I felt content, I felt loved.

Prior to our New Year’s Eve outing I had made the decision to partake in ‘Dry January,’ and in order to stick to my first challenge of 2019 I stopped drinking at 23:45 on the 31st December 2018.

I’m 8 days into the challenge and determined to succeed at it. I have spoken openly about my depression in previous posts and as most will know alcohol is a depressant, so it’s only logical that a depressant will make a depressed mind worse. For years I have used alcohol to self medicate my depression when it was getting too much, it has never helped, the destruction of my physical and mental state visible through the blackout moments I can’t remember – a stream of unfiltered WhatsApp messages the next morning jerking my memory to realise it was bad whatever it was – self loathing and a disregard of my safety driving me to act dangerously and feed the black dog of depression inside.

Alcohol does not soothe the beast, it enables it to drag you further into the pit of despair, closing the exits as you go deeper into the rabbit hole of your mind, convincing you that you need it to cope with the world around you and blinding you to the beauty in it.

Although, I have had a turbulent relationship with alcohol, there are moment where I have enjoyed alcohol without blackout moments and feelings of regret and deep sadness the next morning – New Year’s Eve for example.

I’m not sure if I’ll drink again in February or there after, but I hope this challenge will teach me how to cope on my blue days without alcohol, to go to social events without feeling the need to drink because my anxiety is running laps around my rational thinking and entangling me in paranoia, and I hope it will give me the tools necessary to fight the beast my way.


If you’re experiencing similar thoughts or feelings to those expressed in this post, it’s okay to reach out for help. You can find information about what mental health crisis services are available, how they can help and their times of operation here: https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/guides-to-support-and-services/crisis-services/useful-contacts/