Calm down dears! Teen girls have always been angst-ridden

ACCORDING to a new government report, the nation’s teenagers are in the grip of a ‘slowgrowing epidemic of mental health issues’.

This doom-laden pronouncement about the mindset of 14 and 15year-olds has understandably led to much hand-wringing and soul-searching.

The finger of blame has been pointed variously at pushy parents, the internet and even the global recession.

The problem is apparently particularly acute in girls: 37 per cent reported experiencing three or more symptoms of psychological distress — such as feeling worthless or struggling to concentrate — compared with 15 per cent of boys.

Forgive me if I don’t join the chorus of self-flagellating concern. While I’ve no doubt that life for young British girls in the 21st century is hard work, let’s face it, it’s not Aleppo. Not even slightly; not even close.

Yes, the small number of girls and boys who suffer genuine mental illness deserve every sympathy. But surely asking a 14-year-old girl if she’s unhappy is a bit like asking a dog it if would like to go for a walk.

The answer is only ever yes. It’s in the nature of the beast.

I know this because not only do I share my home with one, I used to be one. And I remember it vividly, even though it was 30-odd years ago.

Back then there was no Instagram, no 24-hour global news channels, no Snapchat or Twitter, no smartphones.

Far from being pushy, my parents were practically horizontal when it came to school work. Yet I was still totally, utterly and completely desolate. Or so I thought.

My anxieties were no different, at root, than those experienced by teenage girls today.

I obsessed endlessly about my appearance, long before the Kardashians came along. A troll was still a creature that lived beneath bridges in fairy-tales, not an internet bully, yet I still lived in fear of being ostracised by my peers.

I firmly believed my parents had it in for me, my teachers were all evil and Simon Le Bon, I had recently discovered, was two-timing me with that no-good floozy, Yasmin.

Like all my friends, I sulked in my room, ate junk, indulged in selfpitying fantasies about expiring in some dramatic fashion (never anything too gruesome, it was very important to leave an attractive corpse for people to weep over). And while I may not have had Facebook to keep me awake into the small hours, I sat up all night reading Jilly Cooper or Danielle Steel when I was supposed to be studying Steinbeck.

Did I feel worthless? Yes. Did I struggle to concentrate? Of course. Would my mother have burst out laughing had someone suggested I was depressed and needed help? For sure.

And she was right. I wasn’t depressed. I was just a normal, tricky, mixed-up teenager.

My daughter and her friends are just the same. Am I worried about her mental wellbeing? No (though I have to admit I am starting to wonder about mine).

She’s just lazy, stubborn and illdisciplined. She is also kind, sweet, funny and utterly delightful when she wants to be. In other words, she is a typical teenage girl.

That is not to say that some youngsters do not have serious, deep-seated issues that need resolving — ones that some parents, perhaps caught up in their own hectic 21st century lives, may not have noticed.

But an ‘epidemic’? Really? Do we seriously want to label a whole swathe of young people as mentally ill?

Nine times out of ten they just need a hug, a chat, a good old cry. Sometimes a firm hand is required. But mostly they need to understand that losing their favourite Topshop denim skirt is not actually THE END OF THE WORLD.

In other words, pull themselves together and get on with doing what all teenagers must: growing up.