Why Are Women So Miserable?

When the question of women’s mental health pops into your mind, you do not quickly think about Julie Burchill. If you live in Great Britain you know more about her than you wish. If you live in America you have never heard of her. And besides, so many of her references are to things British that you will quickly get lost in her otherwise excellent prose.

In any event, it must have been a slow day, because Burchill has recently written a column on the rather sad state of mental health among British females. Apparently, compared to women in the rest of Europe, British women are more miserable.

You might think that we should address the question to a psychiatrist. You might think that we should find a sociologist who can offer a more comprehensive explanation. Burchill, an essayist, novelist and playwright, seems largely unqualified to offer commentary on mental health matters.

In this case, she writes very well and has certainly suffered her own pains, so, we tell ourselves, she might have some interesting thoughts on the subject. There’s something to the notion of been-there, done-that. When it comes to emotional distress, Burchill certainly has been there and done that.

That means, she is offering peer counseling. I am sure you will be happy to receive some from her.

Her analysis owes more to sociology and social psychology than to anything else. She suggests that wWomen are miserable because it has become fashionable for women to be miserable. I am happy to confess that I did not say that. 

But there’s another reason why women might report as more miserable than before. Being jolly has for some time been seen to be the mark of a peasant; over the past couple of years perfectly OK people have flocked to be diagnosed with all kinds of neuro-diverse problems whereas once they’d have written a book, bagged a new job or generally pulled their socks up. 

Misery has been normalized. To the point where women overestimate their misery in order to feel sophisticated. Worse yet, in a world where misery has currency, people who feel happy and contented risk offending those who have not achieved that halcyon state.

Feeling sad is quite normal; sadness is often a fleeting feeling, occurring perhaps on realising how rubbish our Eurovision entry is, or when our favourite skirt doesn’t zip all the way up to the top – often we shake it off when the sun comes out. But by pathologising everything short of perfect happiness, we’re in danger of misrepresenting ourselves as being more miserable than we actually are. It’s got to the stage where it’s almost like being sad makes you a sensitive person, and being happy makes you a shallow one. ‘I didn’t know my being happy would piss so many people off,’ Anne Hathaway’s character tells her friend in the new film The Idea Of You. ‘People hate happy women,’ her friend replies. It’s easier to mope along with the crowd rather than draw envious attention to oneself by shamelessly enjoying life.

Imagine that-- shamelessly enjoying life. Not having problems to complain about. 

As it happens, Burchill is on to something here. When women get together with other women, too often the conversation becomes an exercise in interminable whining and complaining. If you do have anything to whine and complain about, everyone will consider you to be lying or holding back.

Thanks to therapy, misery has been confused with truth.

Burchill is identifying one of the insalubrious side-effects of therapy culture. People develop a bad habit of filling every conversation with heartfelt and soul deadening plaints.

And then there is this. Apparently, modern women are so overworked that they have become allergic to leisure. It’s part of being all things to all people. Or better, they refuse to say that they are enjoying their leisure, lest they provoke the opprobrium of their overworked friends.

Because there’s only one thing worse than being too busy – and that’s not being busy enough. As AI cuts a swathe through jobs, it’s become a badge of honour for busy bees like me to complain that we’re ‘snowed under’ and ‘up to our eyes’ – whereas what we’re really saying is ‘get a load of me. No machine can do what I do. I’m special!’

As for the Burchill solution, take it for what it is worth. She recommends that women take some time off to enjoy themselves, to go out with their girlfriends, in circumstances where they are not even tempted to complain.

She rejects the notion that women should spend their leisure hours pampering themselves, having spa treatments and trying to look good for men.

If women want to be a bit happier, I’ve got a suggestion. When you manage to grab some me time, make sure you make it about you. Don’t, as the head-patters suggest, waste it on ‘pampering’ or ‘wellness’; you’ll only end up feeling resentful that even your alleged leisure time was spent being pummelled and plucked so that men – who generally just wash and go – might find you less revolting. Take a tip from men; don’t ‘grab a coffee’ with a similarly castrated ‘girlfriend’, instead go out to watch something you love (if you find sport a bore, go and see a band you were mad about as a youngster – they’re always on nostalgia tours), eat pizza till it hurts, get drunk with a raucous chorus line of mates. Trust me, fellow daughters of Albion, you’ll cheer up in no time.

In short, break up your normal routines and go out and have some raw, unadulterated fun. 

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