Day’s Without Incident: Five

Let's talk about feeling like a failure. Where does that feeling come from? Did you just wake up one day and think “I’m not doing something right.”? Or did you finally start worrying about what people think about you? There are some people who are able to stomach this feeling of shame when doing whatever the hell they want, so why can't I be that carefree? This, like most other deeply rooted anxieties, comes from how we were raised. 

“If at first you do not succeed, try try again.” 

That was my dad’s most famous line from my childhood. I always remembered him being a kind and encouraging coach and ally no matter what sport I wanted to try. I never felt like I was burdening anyone as I figured out what I loved, what I was good at, and what I wanted to do. 

Around the time I got to high school, I was figuring out myself in a different way. I’m sure it was hard as hell to stand by some of the decisions that I made back then, but isn’t that where the unconditional love of a parent should shine through? Things didn’t always work out, choices I made put me in situations that I regretted, and I learned a lot before even making it to adulthood.

All of this would be chalked up to a normal teenage existence, but I remember realizing pretty early on that everyone around me cared too much about themselves and too little about what I was doing. I could go out every single day after school, drive all night long, meet up with whomever I wanted, as long as I was keeping my grades up and it wasn’t affecting my role on the sports teams. My friend Jae and I used to drive around town smoking protein-shake-bottle gravity bong hits until the wheels fell—or should I say literally flew—off of my truck. Jae’s dad came to get us. He showed us how to change a tire. My mom never even found out. The only symptom of extreme dissociation and personality disorder that my parents seemed to care about was academic and social ambiguity.

With my heightened ability to sink into myself and present the appropriate facade, this was easy. I was talkative, I was always the first one in the school parking lot and the last one out, and I was ranked second in my high school class. Borderline personality disorder didn’t feel like a cursed diagnosis, it felt like a superpower. I was barreling through my pain using the numbness. I was never able to become “me,” just whatever version was needed at the moment. 

Remember when I said it all boils down to how we were raised? That leniency should be granted to your parents as well. My dad grew up with a very rigid timeline. His dad was a pastor, his mom was overbearing, and he married young. He had kids at the same age that I was just choosing the right schedule for my next college semester. My mother’s backstory is hard to pin down. The “lore” we’ve heard over the years isn’t always a product of history and truth but rather how she existed within that reality. I’m sure it wasn’t easy, but they held on to their parent’s ideas of what it meant to make it work.

When they had my eldest brother, my dad told me that he was working two part-time jobs and had to join the military. It was the necessary next step in his eyes. Marriage, kids, and then career. They became robots just going through the motions to make it through another day. Did my dad feel that same pressure that jolts me awake every morning just to scroll through my email, check my bank account, and then lay awake, motionless, considering all the choices that led me to this point in my life? Did he consider calling his parents to share his fears, anxieties, and shame? Did a knot form in his stomach every time he had to explain to his parents the ways they’ve “made it work” that week? Did his parents even care?

I have the opportunity to interview for a job this week. For context, I have a dentist appointment this week as well. I can’t afford the copay, so I eventually decided that I’d have to ask my dad for help. It literally killed me inside to imagine what he thought of me in that moment. I had a panic attack and cried on my fiancé’s shoulder for an hour over having to ask for that $80. When I got the email about the call back, I immediately felt like I should tell my dad. Almost like a “hey! Don’t be too disappointed in me. At least I am still trying.” I didn’t end up telling him, but I know if he calls me I will absolutely find a way to slip it in. Do I hope that it makes him proud? Of course. Is it even something I’m doing to make him proud, or am I just trying to soothe this shame inside of me? 

When I think about having my own kids one day, I don’t want to have to consider all the ways I “made it work.” I don’t want to deal with that feeling where all the oxygen leaves my lungs and my ears are on fire every time I need a little support from my village. I just want them to see me. To see the pain I’ve stomached and grown beyond. I want them to respect the choices I’ve made to survive and want to be there for me, even when I fall back down. I am beyond thankful for the people in my life who listen and give me a safe space to try, fail, and get back up again. I will never be able to repay my friends and my partner for being the kind of people who see struggle all around them and still find a way to spread love and positivity. It inspires me to write this blog. To show that failure is okay. Living the life that makes you feel happy is far more important than living the one that is plentiful. There is beauty in even the smallest places, there is love in these roach-infested apartments, and there is immense strength in these welfare office waiting rooms. 

Sorry for such a big gap, but thanks for coming to day 5!