I failed. Now what?
When I write, the words often reflect a version of me that I intentionally project. The ‘caretaker’. A dry, sarcastic, loving aspect of myself. I need her like a packet of Arnott’s Cheds: so reliable, soothing, and cheesy. Though this style of writing is lovely, it sometimes means only part of the process is for my own release. Hope is an important emotional feature in today’s world, where so much negativity seeps into our minds through the tiny screens in our hands. On this occasion, I’ll risk scuffing the edges of hope for the sake of realness.
On the topic of failure, I aim to express openly; for myself, and for the younger parts of me that want to be seen by who I am today.
Since my kid was born a bit over a year ago, I felt overwhelmed at being a grown up. Millennials are the Peter Pan generation, and I am no exception. I don't own a house, have any assets or financial wealth to my name. The ‘true’ markers of adulthood I have not yet met. I sat with the weight of this new title: grown up. I had bathed in the soapy waters of my own denial long enough; and now, had a tiny human depending on me. I began to crap out an excessive amount of existential dread. What am I doing with my life? Still in unfulfilling 9-5 jobs, I spend my time helping others while often failing to help myself – I am tired, I am cynical, I have become the typical thirty something female who cannot celebrate herself. I peered around and saw some close friends who didn't really like me, who I'd convinced were in my corner even though their actions consistently opposed this.
On the other side of the room, I saw friends I grew up with, seemingly ‘succeeding’ perpetually at life; whether it be in creativity or business. They had thousands of followers, decent looks and nice clothes. So many of these people seemed to uphold a great highlight reel all year round. I post my thoughts on any platform and the response is less than the sound of a fart. Minimal interaction, only a dollop of recognition. So appreciating I am of the one or two dollops, why can’t that be enough? Why do I need to lather my soul with more creamy validation?
Beyond meaningless crap like social media, I feel often like a failure in many intersecting layers of failuredom. Who would I become to my son? Outside of my small counselling business, I sometimes feel next to no intrinsic purpose. The cheese on the cracker of my soul’s gloom is that at times, my inner critic will guilt trip me for not feeling droves of gratitude each day. I have a wonderful wife and baby, yet still wrestle with fears that overshadow the love.
"You even fail at being goddamn thankful,” the inner critic whispers.
I write this and attempt to track my mind to the part of my life where this tension around failure kicked off. When I was young, I leaned into performing, trying to fill a void. Without love and validation at home, I did what most kids do and sought for it elsewhere. By fourteen, I was a skilled drummer, and between school performances and local gigs, I became used to the serotonin in applause. I often look back and wonder how much I enjoyed the process of drumming in actual fact.
The only reason I chose the instrument was because of the Tom Hanks movie ‘That Thing You Do’. My memories of drumming are less about the experience of it, and more about the validation I got from the external world. Fleeting moments of interest for my younger self, who had no other balm to soothe her loneliness. Yet right next to my wounded inner child, I found the playful little one. Both girls sat shoulder to shoulder. The playful kid loved writing stories, drawing comic strips and creating. It was nothing but process. It is unsurprising now as an adult, these two younger parts are still quite rackety. As they argue over who will drive my identity, a time-poor adult feels lost, stuffing all of her motivation into the back pocket of those pants she couldn’t really afford.
Guy Patterson, The Drummer - That Thing You Do.
This is the grief.
To lose our dreams. To stop playing, and making and exploring within the things that bring joy. In my failure’s mind, I am ‘past it’. In this mind, an artist does expire and I should simply release the tension by strapping myself to a desk and ‘letting go’ of all ambition. Beyond the mind of failure, the noisy ego, and the self-obsessed inner critic, I manage to settle into deep reflection and moments of quiet. During my current quiet phase (now), I realise I've never had a clear definition of ‘success’ for myself. Our negative bias is a lovely survival tool, but seeing failure with more clarity than I do success, shows how rude the bias can be when it becomes too dominant.
Success is somewhat blurry right now, but I'd imagine it would feel like truly knowing who I am. And beyond that, being okay with who I am. Carl Jung would term this 'individuating'. A wanky phrase for, ‘realising who the fuck we truly are'. I am still working that out, but I know I am made up of many parts, beyond success or failure. The part who has to work a day job, to pay my bills and help us eat food. The part that enjoys dilly dallying, that hopes in my next life to be born a packet of Tim Tams. The part that yearns to live in nature, and the part that knows that’s a wee while off. The part that feels like it is a failed creative, and the part that is proud of every single word that is currently clacking from my fingertips. Integrating all of the bits and pieces of me, I wonder if true self-acceptance will eventually become my definition of success.
Would you look at that, this rant ended with a dollop of hope after all.
