My Mess Is a Bit of a Life: Adventures in Anxiety

by Georgia Pritchett

Bad Things happen. Bad Things happen even if you tell the Bad Thing not to happen. We’re all doomed.

the children started singing “Jack and Jill Went Up the Hill.” Now there’s a song. Short, succinct, and with a clear health and safety message.

I lost my first tooth biting into a toffee apple. I was alarmed but my mum tried to cheer me up by telling me about the Tooth Fairy. This was unwise. I was troubled by the concept of some weird old fairy breaking into my house while I was asleep and then taking body parts in exchange for money. It was the slippery slope. Where would it end? Was there an Ear Fairy? Was there a Toe Fairy? If I tucked my hand under my pillow while I was sleeping, would she take that?

I realized that you don’t get anything for free and also that Santa Claus is a complete and utter bastard. I know he’s written some great songs, but even so.

I used to think that when you went to the theater, the loud boomy voice that told you to take your seats and also told you about ice cream was the Voice of God. Later, I found out that “the Voice of God” is a term used by entertainment professionals for these very announcements. A religion based around where the nearest available snacks are is the kind of religion I could get behind.

I’m not sure about Eternal Life. It seems like life is long enough already.

I learned that writing could be a lifeline, an escape, and a reason for getting up in the morning.

Science came as a horrible shock. Nobody had warned me about its existence. French seemed ludicrous. Why speak another language badly when there were so many words in my own language that I still needed to learn?

I thought this was a Very Bad Idea. But then I thought most things that involved leaving the house were a Very Bad Idea.

When I went to college, I got in with the wrong crowd. Christians.

My hair is curly. I have no say in what it decides to do. My choices are big hair or small hair.

I’m told I dress like someone whose best clothes are in the wash.

I’ve never understood flirting. How do you know when it’s happening? How do you know how to do it? How do you know whether you are doing it or not?

Someone else told me Georgia was their favorite font. Hard to take credit for that. But thanks.

I discovered that if you’re a shy woman who doesn’t say much but smiles a lot, people project onto you who they think you are or who they want you to be. This makes going on dates doubly interesting/terrifying. I would not only be finding out who they were, I would be finding out who they had decided I was. And the problem was, however much I did or didn’t like them, I never liked their version of me.

Writing is the perfect job for an anxious person. You get to do most of it at home in your pajamas. It is utterly anonymous. Nobody knows what writers look like. Nobody knows their names. Other people literally talk on your behalf. You get to peep out at the world between the lines you’ve written. Every so often you have to get dressed and go out of the house and have a meeting which involves social interaction. Nightmare. But these are usually as short as they are pointless and soon you can scurry back to your duvet and hide again.

When I worked on shows with other writers, I was always the only woman in the room. But I often felt like I wasn’t there at all. When I was working on a show with five other writers, we would sometimes get faxes with notes on the script. The faxes would be addressed to Paul, Dan, Will, Kev, Andy, Etc. I was Etc.

A few years after I started writing, another woman arrived on the scene. Her name was Debbie. I was thrilled to see a whole other woman. I couldn’t wait to work with her. Of course, that never happened. Producers might have wanted/allowed one woman to work in a writers’ room—but why on earth would you need two? That would be ridiculous.

Every single broadcaster in this country has told me that they “already have a show with women in it” when I have suggested shows with women in the lead.

She likes people. She talks to them. She’s hospitable. I mean, she literally invites people over, to the house, for extended periods of time. I know! What is the matter with her?

I felt like Godzilla. I felt ready to knock over buildings, kick over bridges, destroy Tokyo. I wanted to pluck helicopters out of the sky and eat them like drumsticks. I wanted to swat jets away and flick trains off bridges.

I cannot overstate how incredible it was to sit in a room with women writers who looked a bit like me, dressed a bit like me, had similar life experiences and attitudes and opinions—it was really, really, really, pathetically validating. It must be what it’s like to be a white man all day, every day. Amazing!

If you are nominated for an “award” in America, you get driven in a fleet of limos slowly and tactlessly through the poorest areas of Los Angeles. You then pass a group of people holding homemade signs assuring you that you will burn in hell. They make a good point.

As far as worrying about things is concerned, I thought I had everything covered. But a whole new avenue of anxiety had just opened up before me.

What was printed on the visa was probably the nicest thing anyone has ever said about me: “Alien with extraordinary ability.” If you’d told me that’s what I’d grow up to be when I was eleven, I’d have taken that.