According to this week’s news cycle, I’m part of ‘generation sicknote’. I’m a whiny, attention-seeking waste of oxygen who has the sheer audacity to let things like emotion get in the way of being a smoothly oiled cog in the machine. 

In case you missed it, an article this week pointed out that a third of young people experience mental illness and that 5% of young people are currently signed off work for mental health reasons. That article went on to suggest that these youths are a generation of ‘snowflake’ layabouts who are tanking the economy. Of course. 

Make no mistake, the figures the article cited are worryingly high. But in my view, that isn’t the damning indictment of my generation that the article proposes. I know first-hand what it’s like to have to take time away from work because of my mental health, and I know that doing this absolutely does not make you a lazy snowflake. 

Up until recently, I was one of the 30% of autistic people in full-time employment. I worked as an entertainment journalist, and, to the outside world, I was living the dream. I attended film premiers, interviewed Hollywood stars in glamorous London hotels, and I had a buzzing social life. I adored my job, and the only thing I loved more was finally being able to live out the ‘big city journalist’ fantasy I built for myself in London.

But deep down, I knew that I was just a child playing dress-up, and I couldn’t keep playing the part forever. When I first started working full-time and learned about the 30% stat cited above, I was puzzled. I knew so many talented and driven autistic people, and I’d worked pretty much consistently ever since I was old enough to do so. I assumed that the data was simply wrong or under-researched, like so many things are when it comes to neurodiversity. 

But in the background, things were falling apart. The only way I was able to cope with full-time work was by letting every other area of my life slide, including diet, hygiene, household maintenance and all the other little things you’re meant to do every day to be a functioning person. All these things, like remembering to do your laundry or putting aside money for your tax bill, all became a big, impenetrable clump in my brain as I realised the more I tried to work, the worse the burnout would be.

I felt embarrassed about being burnt out because it wasn’t ‘normal’ to struggle with all this stuff, but it soon became clear why the employment rate among autistic people was so low. Still, I clung on, arrogantly believing that my hollow imitation of what I saw as ‘normal’ adulthood was the only way I would be able to prove to the peers, teachers and doctors who doubted me that I could, in fact, make it in this world.

But after a prolonged period of burnout, my obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) returned with a vengeance. I found myself oscillating between constant panic attacks and crying, my brain unable to comprehend the idea that I was safe and nothing bad was going to happen. The cruellest irony of all was that my OCD convinced me that my life as I knew it would be destroyed, but because I could no longer cope with full-time work, this is exactly what happened anyway. 

When I informed my boss that I was going to self-certify for time off sick, I was ashamed. There was nothing physically wrong with me, which made me feel like a liar and a fraud. My workplace couldn’t have been kinder or more accommodating during this time, but because of society’s hostility and judgment towards mentally ill and neurodivergent young people, I went back after just seven days, which was way before I was ready.

I’m sure that people will read this and think I’m being a self-indulgent snowflake, but I truly did everything I possibly could to try to avoid this from happening, from near-constant calls to my GP to going in person to a mental health crisis centre in the hopes of getting some kind of sticking plaster for my brain.

But every day I was fobbed off: I was told I was both too ill and not ill enough or told to wait on a tomorrow that would never come. No matter what avenue I went down, I was met with resistance, refusals and declarations of ‘not this time’. Wading through a system like that is demoralising at the best of times, but when you’re already struggling with your mental health, it’s soul-destroying. I couldn’t help rolling my eyes at the part of the ‘generation sicknote’ article that claimed people like me are putting a strain on an already stretched NHS – how can that be the case when I couldn’t even get a GP appointment? 

After trying and failing to keep my head above water for another five months, I realised that the only way I could cope with work was if I had a flexible schedule and picked my own hours. So, I went freelance. I’m in an incredibly privileged position to even have that as an option, but at least for now, I know I wouldn’t be able to cope with a standard 9-5 job.

This has been an exceptionally difficult pill for me to swallow; for years, I’ve defined my identity based on my academic – and, more recently, career – achievements. I’ve always been incredibly ambitious and driven – partly, I believe, due to this hustle culture foisted upon us, and without an impressive grade or job title, I had no idea who I really was.

I thought I was alone in feeling this way, but the generation sicknote article made me realise that I’m not. I’m sure that piece was intended to make people like me feel ashamed, but what it’s done is prove something that I’ve always suspected: that it’s not feasible for everyone to live a healthy, happy life with a 40-hour work week.

If a whole generation is struggling with this, along with higher rates of mental illness and other personal struggles, then surely that indicates a systemic problem. Sure, you can argue that this never really happened in your day, but it’s important to remember that when it comes to mental health, all the campaigns are centred around ‘speaking up’ when you’re struggling and not suffering in silence. 

But when people like me listen to these campaigns and choose to speak up, all we get in return is another disparaging buzzword or, if we’re really lucky, a spot on a years-long waiting list for treatment that may or may not help. Either way, it feels like we can’t win.

Contrary to popular belief, I remain ambitious and still believe that I have a good work ethic – I’ve just learned that I need to work in a different to most people. I’m no longer willing to let these buzzwords hold me back. 

Images: courtesy of Charlotte Colombo