So, I’ve been wondering lately if it’s time to give up.
Most of the time, I feel like a failure. It’s tiring and it feels terrible, and what’s worse is that I know most of it is self-inflicted. It’s a feeling I’ve carried a good part of my life, a combination of anxiety, a fear of failure, and a self-consciousness that teeters into self-loathing. Combined with a desire for acceptance and pleasing people, it becomes a homemade toxic stew.
I don’t know where this comes from, other than my head mostly, where small things become Godzilla-sized kaiju, stomping and unleashing radioactive destruction across the Tokyo of my mind.
Acceptance of the way things are, and recognizing what isn’t, can be hard. Here are some of the things I fail at:
Writing (and other creative endeavors): This is the first newsletter I’ve written since January. That’s seven months. I’d like to say I’ve been writing other things in that time, but I haven’t. There are plenty of excuses I can make, but those are just excuses. I question whether I even have anything to say. I question even more whether anyone cares. I rarely get comments or shares here. My podcasts get some feedback, but that’s more thanks to being part of a larger, popular network—no one I actually know even listens to them. I’m part of group chats and have considered leaving them at one time or another because I often don’t get responses there, either. I shout into the void, and the void shrugs.
Work: I’m currently unemployed, which actually isn’t what stresses me. I’ve been out of work before, and we’ve always been able to survive one way or the other. Freelance work goes dry, and then comes in all at once. I eventually find a job, hopefully in my field but not always. And there’s where the concern come in. I’m getting older, and I haven’t advanced in the way a lot of my contemporaries have. Combined with freelancing, this looks like standing still to a lot of employers. Ageism is a real thing. Which begs two questions: What have I been doing with my professional life? And can I even get a job anymore?
Friends: When I first started junior high, I was adopted by a group of super-cool kids. Earrings and New Wave/Punk hair and they smoked cigarettes (and other things). I’d never really had friends before, and spent a lot of time alone on the playground when I wasn’t fielding taunts like “nerd” and “fag” and dodging actual balls lobbed at me. (I liked to read.) Within a couple of weeks, this super-group met my sister and they stopped being my friends. We were still friendly, but we didn’t hang out. The same thing happened again in high school.
My sister is much more fun and interesting than I am.
Somewhere along the way I developed this idea that people don’t really like me, they just tolerate me. I know this isn’t always true (I have a handful of people I know I could call to bail me out of jail at any time of night, and I doubt my wife has just been a glutton for punishment the last couple of decades). I think I make a good impression, but that impression starts to tarnish with time. (I’m sure this particular newsletter will help). To know me is to wonder how to tactfully slip away.
There are other tiny things that build up, like plaque in a struggling heart valve, but it can all be boiled down to one thing: I’m easily discouraged. And sometimes giving up sounds so much easier. Almost restful. Expectations, especially the ones that might be unrealistic, seem much less heavy when you set them down.
Work? Just find a job, any job, eat some shit and don’t worry about it. At least it’s a paycheck.
Writing? Maybe I’m not the writer I thought I was, or thought I could be. Ambitions fade like forgotten photos if you just let them go. You’ll look back at them someday and squint, trying to recognize the features that have become bare outlines of someone you used to know.
Friends? Maybe I need to remember there’s a difference between Friends and People I Know. I have good friends, and that’s important. Why should I worry about acquaintances who barely know me? Who don’t seem to want to know me? It’s a form of rejection and I hate it, so why do I pursue it? Relative isolation is easier. No one can ignore me if I beat them to it.
But. But but but. I love having friends. I treasure having friends like a greedy dragon with a hoarding problem. I want to work, and I want that work to be meaningful and at least a little fulfilling. I write—and take photos and podcast and whatever—because I see things I want to share.
And that’s good. Right?
So today, I’m not giving up. I’m not going to go charging up any hills, because I’m tired, but I’m not giving up. And that’s something. And it’s for me. And that in itself feels like something that’s Not Failure.
Something to build on.
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Hi, all—I hope you'll forgive the group response. I just wanted to say how much your replies mean to me, and I can't even begin to tell you how much I appreciate you all taking the time. First, I want you all to know that I'm fine, and I'm grateful for your concern. Getting this out in writing helped kick me out of the funk, but hearing from each of you helped even more. I'm touched by your encouragement, your support, and most of all by your empathy. I appreciate you all more than I could say. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Whoa boy.
I had no idea we were in such similar places (and apparently have similar sisters). I'd really just like to sit around and chat with you about this because my motivation-o-meter is on E. Of course, you're a real writer whereas I've been eating shit at a job that pays the bills for ages, but still...man, this was better than a visit to my therapist.
BTW, being the nerdy kid who reads is a lot of fun, huh? Especially when you're carrying around a book with "MOORCOCK" in huge red letters on the back of it.