I'm a Failure and I Don't Give a Fuck

"Sometimes the WHEEEE balances the whOooOO"
-Esquie, Clair Obscur: Expedition 33.

Note: When I wrote this, I was in one of my BIG emotions. As always, emotions pass, and I'm okay now. But it was a good time for me to reflect and write about the realities of being in a "third place" - the in-betweens. It's never all sunshines and rainbows and my hope is that you, as the reader, sees the rawness in being human, being real with your own person.

I quit my last full time job a year ago. What began as a way to “find myself” has rendered me even more lost. I thought I could be one of those people who, driven by desperation or whatever the hell they say on LinkedIn, would beat all the odds and come out on top. Finally knowing what I want in life, finding my passion or something that drives me to get out of my cute little couch-bed in my childhood bedroom.

Turns out, I’m one of those people who require the structure of an organisation and formally recognised job to function.

Maybe I’m not desperate enough. Does that make me a failure?

On some days, there is a pit in my chest so deep that I can’t breathe. Waking up feels like a burden. Another day of: oh, here we go again. Do I have to wrangle under-6s today or come home smelling like I rolled in a vat of roasted coffee beans? (Note: I do enjoy both jobs, actually!)

I know the solution is to get a real “job” and start the daily grind all over again. Come in, do my job, get paid at the end of the month, repeat. But I know it’s too short a time for me to get a “real” job, because I’m packing up and leaving.

Leaving. I know I should be excited. In fact, I’m happy about leaving. Perhaps a different environment is what I need to restart and recalibrate.

But I know, deep down, that the problem is… me. If I can’t even re-calibrate here, in my own home, where comfort is abundant, how can I deal with the big change of moving across the world, living in a new apartment, with a new person?

Maybe I need to start accepting that this is my reality. The expectations I had of myself, in those years of heightened optimism and schools’ cheery promises of a better future, will never be attained. I should just accept that I’ll always be mediocre. Enough to live but not enough to be “great”.

So maybe I’m a failure, and I don’t give a fuck.