…that rebellion is healthy.

At around the age of thirteen I went a bit nuts. This was because my young life had spun out of my control and the only way I could feign any kind of mastery over it was to be a really pissed off teenager. I’d gone from a cushty prep school in London to some parallel universe called boarding school. I hadn’t particularly wanted to be at home because home life was as cheering as root canal; my parents were divorcing, my family hated each other, and under the circumstances Transylvania-on-Sea seemed quite appealing. I had a head full of Enid Blyton books and I imagined a life of midnight swims, feasts and shenanigans.

As it turned out the school wasn’t for me. It was for child-hating sociopathic lesbians. There was a constant sinking feeling of dread at some looming punishment because of course I was a ‘trouble-maker’ and I had an ‘attitude problem’.  Of course I did. I was cooped up, screwed up, under-stimulated, lost, bored, lonely and terrified. I was the battery chicken before the politics of ‘free-range’ and ‘organic’ meant grass and sky were a creature’s rights.

Thankfully I was able to retain some notion of my former self by questioning, challenging and testing the waters I found myself in. Still, considering I ate mostly fizzy cola bottles, space raiders and stinger bars I’m surprised I didn’t burn out before I got thrown out. Well, at least my dissent was 100% wholegrain. 

“What is a rebel? A man who says no.” Albert Camus 

Further reading:

George Orwell 1984

George Orwell Animal Farm

John Stuart Mill  On Liberty

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