Failure

I’m not particularly good at it.

When I was growing up, it was great to be the best. I don’t remember hearing about anyone that just enjoyed doing something. Someone was always first, or the fastest, or just got into Yale, or got a 1600 on the SAT.

For whatever reason, I carried this with me.

I was really competitive as a kid, constantly trying to get better grades than the two boys ahead of me. Sometimes I did. In the winter, I rode my bike to the local Y and went to swim team winter practice, and in the summers, I dove into the freezing cold water every morning, determined to be faster. Things sort of fell apart when we moved to another state, and I spent a lot of years wondering who I really was. It was almost painful to be the smart adopted kid, because teachers always told my beaming parents about my potential, but by high school, I just wanted to crawl out my bedroom window and have the freedom to be myself without having my future carved out by an IQ test and the dreams of my parents. Eventually, my parents were just hopeful that I would graduate high school.

When the rest of my friends were going to grad school, my mom was so proud to tell people that I moved to Denmark, learned to speak fluent Danish, and worked as a teacher. I had always been very individualistic, and I believe she was proud that I was able to channel this into something positive. I never told my parents that in reality, my immature Danish husband had developed anger management issues, and used to hide my shoes so that I couldn’t leave him in the middle of the snowy winters. Or that one day, I walked across the street to the local crisis center, barefoot, when he tried to lift me up against a wall by my neck and told me the only way I was going back to the US was in a body bag. I don’t talk about this, because of my overwhelming fear that people will see this experience as a part of who I am, and will look at me like someone to be pitied. I have a hard time owning my weaknesses, because I have always felt that weaknesses were meant to be overcome. And I think I can only talk about this now, because I was able to successfully walk away from my marriage.

One night, while he was away, I packed up my clothes and my books and moved into an apartment in the town where I was working. The apartment belonged to a girl who would be studying in Australia for 6 months, and while I had planned this months in advance, I constantly worried that I would never be able to pull it off.

Six months later, I moved back to New York, and took three part-time jobs in Manhattan. It was easy to convince my family (and myself) that I was ok, because I was the busy working girl in the city.

Fast forward to now.

It’s the end of the semester, and I will have to repeat at least two of my classes. I am so completely angry at myself. I am angry for taking too much on, and I am angry for not succeeding. The reason I talked myself into taking the lowest-paying job of my life is that it would give me the ability to finish my education, and now that my education is no further towards being finished, I’m angry that I’ve spent the last five months at a job that I can’t stand.

Sometimes I feel that this existence in Florida is time in purgatory for a crime I don’t remember committing.

I know that I’m ok, and I’m just having a pity party, but my single, childless neighbor with the job as a journalist just walked out to her car with a towel and a bathing suit. She said she’s hoping to leave work early and get to the beach. Girl, it’s 10:30. When were you planning on going to work?

This fear of failure is definately something I don't want to pass on to the Kid. I think I hear a trip to the self-help section of my local bookstore coming on.

Here's a little mood music. It's the only song that would calm the Kid down when she was an infant. I honestly believe it's because I listened to it while I was pregnant. She's jumping up and down on the bed right now and laughing.

And really, I know that's all that matters.