Masochistic Merit

In 2020, in the midst of the early days of the Pandemic, I had heard of a prestigious essay competition, with the theme “Who Benefited from Covid?” I decided to enter, choosing to write about my history of suicidal ideation, depression, and how, ironically, lockdown had helped alleviate some of the burden. To my surprise, on my first try, I placed as a joint runner-up. I was invited to attend the award ceremony, and had many of the judges compliment me on my essay. I politely ignored the strange tone of their compliments; sounding, unintentionally, I convinced myself, as though they were impressed more by my unabashed honesty in my mental and emotional struggle than in my conveyance and skill as a writer. Encouraged by this small victory, I have since entered the competition year on year, producing, in my opinion better quality work. Yet, strangely, I have not been able to reach that height since, despite producing better pieces. The themed topic changes year on year, so it’s not entirely unfair for me to assume that it was the topic I wrote about (mental distress and suicidal thoughts) that won me my place and not my merit. Perhaps I’m being a little tough on myself, but consider the news most recently.

UK academia has been rocked this month by the public downfall of sociologist and university professor Jason Arday, who has been accused of plagiarism and falsification of facts, and has now resigned in response to such accusations. I’m not here to comment on whether these allegations are true or not but rather the fact that has come to light that part of Arday’s appointment as a professor at the University of Cambridge was because of his almost (and seemingly) unbelievable life story; he was non-verbal until he was 11, illiterate until he was 18, he has been diagnosed with autism, development delays, deafness, dyscalculia, dyslexia, and epilepsy. Whether these claims are true or not, it is strange that they were considered factors in his appointment at the university. Then Deputy Vice-Chancellor of the University of Cambridge (their official title was “Master of Selwyn College”) Roger Mosey  said that Arday’s diagnoses and struggles “made him a compelling candidate.”

While Arday’s legitimacy is in the air, the case of Samantha Cookes most certainly isn’t. Cookes is a serial con artist who was finally sentenced for crimes of theft and fraud in Ireland in 2025. Before her conviction, she had been awarded at least €37,250 from the Arts Council, the Irish Writers Centre, Bodley Head (imprint of Penguin Publishing), and the Financial Times for her essays about her life with Huntington’s disease. She does not have Huntington’s disease. The majority of that revenue was awarded in two grants by the Arts Council, who award grants competitively, meaning someone who was a real creative in need of support lost out because they didn’t have a sob story as good as Cookes’, which is even more disgraceful when you consider how many actual disabled creatives were passed on.

Sometimes, there is even pressure from the powers that be to adhere to this strange glamourisation of suffering. Consider James Frey of “A Million Little Pieces” (in)fame. Having suffered from drug addiction, Frey did what any good writer would do; turn pain into art. His “memoir” started off as a fictional novel inspired by his life; a practice that is extremely common and cathartic for writers. However, there was no interest in the novel, not even by its future publisher, Random House, until it stopped being marketed as inspired by true events and instead became true events. For some reason the story, which extensively hadn’t changed, was more desired if it was believed to be real. It’s deeply patronising the more you think about it; it was as if Frey’s struggles weren’t deserving of sympathy unless they were overtly miserable and fantastically arduous. It’s important to remember that around this time, the early 2000s, “misery porn” was an emerging market for publishing, where books that focused on traumatic, difficult, even masochistic lives were all the rage. I’m not absolving Frey of his misrepresentation, but, to his credit, he was honest until the market wanted him to be dishonest.

This sentiment isn’t just a once-off in writing. In fact, every year thousands, if not millions, of words are written by college hopefuls who are expected, as part of their admissions process,  to write personal essays. With only so many places, and such high demand for college graduates, even as the job market saturates with ever devalued degrees, the college admissions essay has become a cottage industry in and of itself, with courses set up by gurus to teach the next generation of students how to tug at their heart strings. While there are good intentions behind this expectation, where colleges hope to find the diamonds in the rough, rooting out students who, yes, maybe academically don’t stand out, and may have been burdened by societal, cultural, and systemic obstacles, at least stand out with their character, grit, and perseverance, students are once again competing against each other in an absurd game of who has suffered the most. How does one measure struggle? How many points is being disabled? Muslim? Asian? Do you get minus points? Oh, you’re a black gay woman? That’s three points. Oh, but your parents are together and they raised you Catholic? Oh dear, that’s going to cost you two points! How unfortunate. Oh, look at that; that’s a point!

You can laugh, but there is a certain undertone of this when we talk about nepotism, or “Nepo Babies.” We all believe in fairness, and as we can smell the stink of when the boss’ son is a pity-hire, or when such-and-such an actor is riding off their more successful and famous relative’s surname, but I find it strange that when we negate the lived experiences of people and their legitimate merits when it comes to the arts. You’d never say a family of farmers were reliant on nepotism, even though the farm is literally handed down in wills, nor would you say children following in their parents’ footsteps in careers like medicine, the military, or carpentry was nepotism. Yet we do this when it comes to the arts, when children can’t help but pick up on the artistic influences at home; for some reason we don’t see acting, singing, writing, or dance and such as family jobs, despite the fact this was traditionally how artistic apprenticeships worked, just like any other family trade. Yes, there are examples of woefully untalented messes pushed into the arts by their parents (Jaden Smith,) but we shouldn’t devalue the efforts of those who had a slightly easier time than others. It doesn’t devalue the disappointments and setbacks just because they had to experience less of them. And more importantly, while pain can be turned into artistic expression, it still takes adept skill, a unique taste, and a concentrated intentionality to execute that transformation well, let alone perfectly. Pain can be art, but pain is not inherently artistic.

There was a point at the award ceremony where I was speaking to one of the judges. She was telling me that she works with people who have been long-term unemployed with a kind of art therapy, helping them express themselves and work through any personal issues they may be. At the time, and I mentioned this in my essay, I had been unemployed for 9 years straight. The way the conversation was going, it sounded as though she was about to offer me a job working with her, perhaps as an example to those also suffering from employment; a model example of what is possible if you see yourself as more than unemployed and poor, and strive for creative work.

Instead, she just said “oh, I know what you’re going through. I see it all the time.”

She then left the conversation.

This whole time I’ve wondered what this strange fascination with rewarding suffering is. Whether it’s rewarding me (literally) for contemplating killing myself, Arday for his extraordinary (and currently debated) life story, Cookes for her courageous battle with her non-existent illness, Frey for making his addiction more market ready, or hopeful would-be students and aspiring artists, there is admiration for hardship. Thinking back to that final remark from the judge, how she “sees it all the time,” I’m struck by the voyeuristic nature of bestowing karmic balance.

Cambridge spoke so openly and proudly about how they appointed a black neuro-divergent professor, only the sixth in the history of the university, as though that was absolution for centuries of discrimination in British academia. Samantha Cookes was hailed as this great inspiration for the disabled, as though this papered over the conflict between applying for grants for artistic work and maintaining their disability allowance, a risk Cookes cook take since her disability was fictious. Oprah Winfrey couldn’t help but use Frey’s story to promote her book club, so moved by his recovery from addiction yet not moved enough to donate any of the proceeds to recovery programs or even to have sympathies for Frey during the public dressing down she gave him on his show after the truth was revealed. College admission boards will happily boast about the hardships of their alum, yet will still expect them to go into debt to attend, only saddling them with more hardship to overcome for most of their young adulthood. And calls for Nepo Babies to justify their careers does nothing to promote undiscovered talent, nor to deplatform those who have used their self-made success to take advantage and abuse others.

So much of our sense of virtue, of manhood, of success, of admiration, of morality, and even romanticism is tied up in the idea of adversity; overcoming. And for some, those who don’t have to go through the same lives as others, it can be comforting, even self-soothing, to be tangentially connected to that adversity, especially when it comes from a position of bestowing the reward. David Graeber talked about this bitterness in regard to the irony that highly important and admired jobs (medical, education, civil service) are also simultaneously underpaid. The attitude is that you are lucky to struggle in a difficult, yet admirable job, so you therefore must be either underpaid, or it must benefit me directly. Similarly, it seems valuing adversity bolsters the pride and sense of purpose for those in a position to reward others. By observing suffering, and seeing oneself as easing it, it can act as if one had gone through the challenges themselves and are equally entitled to the romanticised victory of having overcome it.

“Oh, I know what you’re going through. I see it all the time,” isn’t just a throwaway comment. It’s a sincerely held belief that to observe suffering is the same as having endured it. To her, seeing people struggle with unemployed and self-worth, made her equal to me, maybe even superior for rewarding me for it. It absolved her of any obligations to help further. To reward suffering is seen as better than ending it.

It’s not that people value suffering more than merit; it’s that people value their observation as if it makes them equal to others. It has nothing to do with challenges overcome, and everything to do with the guilt and shame that those who have endured more than you didn’t let that stop them. If you haven’t suffered as much as someone else, yet you’re in a privileged position to judge their merit, what does that say about you?

#HI