Failing, failing, failing through the years.

I’ve begun to see a therapist.

This is not my first time in therapy; I was a fucked up child and continue to be a fucked up adult. I have what they call “the issues” and though I think I hide them rather well, 97% of people would disagree with me.

Especially when hiding them rears its ugly head and I end up sobbing. For days. As a reaction to some gif I saw on Facebook.

So the therapist and I are getting to know each other, you know, like you do. Sort of like a one-sided awkward date where you get asked a lot of questions and you know “there’s no judgment in here” but you feel judgment closing in on you like a vice grip.

No big deal.

And right now, because of the health issues, because of the fact that I’m not working, because of the fact that I’m in my 30s and not contributing meaningfully to pretty much anything, I’m just kind of like, “How the fuck? Why the fuck? What the fuck?” in rapid succession.

Therapist asked me the other day, “What would you do if you knew you could not fail?”

And I said, “I hate that question. A lot of people have asked me that question.” And I always think the answer to that question is, “I would write a book.” But I don’t know if that’s necessarily true. Because 99% of the time, I think I fail at life. But how do you say, “I would live” in a way that’s meaningful and not some over-the-top montage scene?

And she said, “Well, I can phrase it a different way if you want.”

And I told her she didn’t have to, because I grasped the concept.

Because if I could not fail, I would:

write a thousand books with the most quotable sentences that people would post on Instagram with captions about how it gave them life, and how they needed to read this right now, and lots of fire emojis.

I would be in theatre and write songs and perform and make people laugh and cry and laugh while they were crying.

I would bungee jump.

Maybe skydive?

Maybe not skydive.

I would go back to that time in 5th grade where we had to jump rope for 2 minutes, and I practiced hard for that shit. Every day, I jumped rope. And I still didn’t make those fucking two minutes. I would dominate the two-minute jump rope thing.

Also, I’d do hurdles. I was always afraid of hurdles. I stopped and climbed over the hurdles. I was so afraid of jumping and tripping and falling.

In case you were wondering, I am not, nor have I ever been, popular.

Oh, I’d play the stock market.

I’d study neurophysics. Is that a thing? I’d MAKE IT A THING.

I’d travel.

I’d learn peace and acceptance.

I know that’s such a hippie thing to say, but I am not, nor have I ever been, comfortable in my own skin. Failure is something I know, something that’s as soft to me as a blanket on a cold day. I’ve failed a million times, so much so that if I succeeded, I wouldn’t know what it looked like.

I do not credit, nor do I focus on, my wins. I think that’s a problem. I also think that if you win a lot you get conceited, and I happen to like my self-deprecation.

Sometimes, anyway.

Have a good day, friends. Be kind to yourselves.


One thought on “Failing, failing, failing through the years.

  1. […] My last couple of months, if you’ve been following, have been kind of a drag. […]

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