Notes from the Sofa by Alex Neve

Mistake Number Six: Reading About and Fully Buying into Manifestation

Photo by Madison Oren on Unsplash

Hi, I’m Alex. I’m a writer, I’m thirty-nine and will shortly be living out of a suitcase again, something I thought I’d left well behind in my twenties. Back then, I was a regular sofa surfer (thanks to everyone who put me up! Apologies if I cried too much or you caught me masturbating when I thought you were out).

Of course, thanks to London rental prices, my situation is unexceptional and I’m lucky enough to have been offered many a sofa to surf, but with several of my friends purchasing their first homes, some even their second, I’m starting to wonder how I’ve fucked up so badly, that I’ve ended up in this situation (again).

So, rather than moan, over the next few weeks I’ll walk you through a series of mistakes that perhaps you can avoid. I’ll have to go back to the very beginning to unpick the missteps that have often led to friends and family holding me up as an example of what can happen if you don’t work hard enough at school. It may, at times, contain foul language.

Mistake Number Six: Reading About and Fully Buying into Manifestation

I should begin by saying that I’m aware that many people have benefited from positive thinking and manifesting. I’ve friends who swear it’s changed their lives. Their romance, health, and income boosted as they tackle the world one mood board at a time, but my character is naturally predisposed to OCD, so I’m not one of those lucky fuckers who can take what they need from such teachings and continue life in a sane and sensible fashion. Let’s just say that during my late twenties, if the books that promote manifestation were a cult, I would’ve been a fully paid-up member, drinking the Kool-Aid and blithely disconnecting from my family.

It was during an earlier period of sofa-surfing that I first discovered this school of thought. I was vulnerable, having just split from my first long-term boyfriend (the rose petal spitter). I’d also spent the last year of our relationship suffering from a bizarre allergic reaction that caused my face to swell so much I couldn’t speak at times or open my right eye which in turn, meant I lost out on wages due to sickness (zero hour contract call centre) and was on and off steroids that made me gain weight (more money spent on diet shakes). I’d also fallen out with a close friend (totally my fault) and was drinking far too much, often waking up in strange bedrooms and having to crawl to work on a hangover with sick in my fringe. So, when I read about being able to cure my shitty predicament with positive thinking, it became perfectly clear that the above was all my fault for being such a negative person and I’d be able to change my entire life with a mere shift of my thoughts. Much of the above was my fault, of course, but some was just pure chance. A little dose of bad luck that all the manifesting in the world probably couldn’t change, but why believe that when the solution was apparently so simple?

Curled up on the sofa I was also sleeping on, I began manically practising positivity. I’d scrawl endless gratitude lists on anything I could find, frantically tearing up magazines and Pritt Sticking images of abundance (London homes with outdoor space, starlets clutching Oscars, expensive health retreats that cure allergies, thin women holding Birkin bags etc), and out I went into the world, sporting a permanent grin and mentally thanking the universe for everything that crossed my path in a bid to cosmically order myself a happy, healthy and wealthy life (and because it was 2013, some Charlotte Tilbury Mascara).

I wasn’t stupid enough to believe this was all I had to do, I knew I had to put the work in, so I took any available shift and attended every acting or writing class, snatching up opportunities as they came. I entered competitions, went to open auditions I wasn’t suitable for, and interviewed like crazy. I’d participate in market researches on the other side of London, squeezing them into a fourteen-hour shift to earn an extra thirty quid, terrified of rejecting a chance to earn money, lest the universe see me as an ungrateful whore who didn’t want abundance. I attended every social event and celebrated every fucker’s success like it was my own (leaving no room for that very human initial stab of jealously). It was exhausting, but I couldn’t let that drag me into a place of pessimism, so on I went, desperately pushing away feelings of tiredness and mentally avoiding the fact I was heartbroken and still very much skint.

So after all this forced positivity, when I was mugged walking home one night, naturally, I thought I’d brought it on myself. That I’d let one of those pesky negative thoughts take up too much brain space and somehow accidentally ordered myself a mugging instead of a Mulberry bag.

Rather than abandoning my manic moodboard, I doubled down, refusing to take the counselling sessions offered for fear that discussing the whole being mugged by three men in children’s Halloween masks would drag me into a negative space and, in turn, manifest further unfortunate experiences. On I continued until eventually I had a mental collapse, was told I was experiencing Obsessive Compulsive Thoughts and reluctantly dragged myself to CBT.

Whilst the financial impact of this little blip was minimal compared to my previous mistakes, the effect it had on my mental health was far greater. By looping myself into a consistently positive mindset, I became stuck. Clinging to jobs, fuckboys and a career path that wasn’t meant for me because I refused to see any negativity. Cheerily waving away the glaring warning signs and minimising any feelings of pain or discomfort.

Once again, I would like to state that I don’t believe a positive state of mind is a bad thing, but the problem is, if you become as obsessive as I did, when life throws a curveball, as it inevitably always does, those issues - rejection, losing out on a job opportunity, unexpected costs, getting sick - hit far harder. Instead of feeling low for a bit, it becomes personal. You begin to think, What am I doing so wrong that other people, who I work just as hard as, are healthier/meeting great partners/winning the Euromillions, and I just get more bad luck? You can then only assume that these loved-up, healthy millionaires are far better people than you have ever been and have zero bad thoughts about anyone or anything.

By not allowing myself space for a small yet healthy dose of negativity, I lost any resilience I had and, quite frankly, all of my personality. I was for a time, annoying as fuck. I also blame the perma-grin I wore during my positive phase for my smile lines.

I try to own the down days now, and strangely enough, by accepting them (sometimes by having huge bitchy rants) they pass, making room for a sense of genuine positivity, removing the sting from the tail of any jealousy or unhealthy comparisson. A balanced outlook that’s realistic and doesn’t make me look like a wellness influencer on speed.

Perhaps if I hadn’t been so busy thanking the universe for the shitty market researches and the disappointing shags I would’ve escaped the zero hour contracts and damaging relationships far sooner and not be sofa surfing right now.