You’d never tell just by looking at me. But let’s not mince words. I done fucked up. I had one job. Now I have a black hole in my guts.
I’m exaggerating. Dramatising. When your actions impact other people’s lives, it’s hard not to take a setback hard. Because not only have you f-ed up and you’re wrong, but that f-up has f-ed up someone else. Somehow, with best intentions and professional soundness, I managed to make things worse. What the hell?
The hardest thing for me to process is that at the time, there was no way that cocky, shitty past-me could have know how much of an epic fail things would be. If I had a time machine, I would go back and punch past-me in the face.
Actually no. The hardest thing for me to process is that I already know all the words I would use to console myself, to lessen the blow, to stand up again, and to do better. But there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to. A part that desperately wishes that I can’t. That I shouldn’t be able to recover from this. That I should at least develop a psychosomatic limp and alcoholism.
There’s a great yawning gap between knowing and experiencing. It’s about the size of a giant crying baby – no offence to giant crying babies.
And how do I move forward from this? I suppose I’ll still go back to work tomorrow. I’ll wake up early, pack my lunch, listen to music on the drive to work. I’ll smile when I see my co workers and my clients. I will say the same things I’ve always said. How are you? What have you been up to? If you were to come and see me again, what sort of things would you like to work on? Please take care. Be well. Be happy. I look forward to speaking with you again soon.
But I won’t be the same, will I? I will be risk aversive. I will second guess every thought. I will space out. I will have a giant lump in my throat. I will stare at the phone. I will be extra cheerful.
Things do get better... I think. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. They always say that you have to fail to succeed. They don’t tell you how much it hurts to fail. How you have to crawl on your hands and knees to gather the shards of yourself back together. How sometimes you don’t want to recover. But things do get better, don’t they? And I don’t mean in the external sense in that the clouds lift, the sun shines, and world hunger is eradicated. I mean inside. I mean that confidence that sneaks up again. That quiet recovery. That weed that you suddenly notice in the barren earth. That willingness to invest.
And will the cycle repeat? Will I topple again? Will I get to the pinnacle and slip? Will I leave another smudge?
I suppose if I’m terrible, they can always fire me. The way I’m feeling tonight, I’d fire me.
They probably don’t see me the way I see myself, though.
I’m exaggerating. Dramatising. When your actions impact other people’s lives, it’s hard not to take a setback hard. Because not only have you f-ed up and you’re wrong, but that f-up has f-ed up someone else. Somehow, with best intentions and professional soundness, I managed to make things worse. What the hell?
The hardest thing for me to process is that at the time, there was no way that cocky, shitty past-me could have know how much of an epic fail things would be. If I had a time machine, I would go back and punch past-me in the face.
Actually no. The hardest thing for me to process is that I already know all the words I would use to console myself, to lessen the blow, to stand up again, and to do better. But there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to. A part that desperately wishes that I can’t. That I shouldn’t be able to recover from this. That I should at least develop a psychosomatic limp and alcoholism.
There’s a great yawning gap between knowing and experiencing. It’s about the size of a giant crying baby – no offence to giant crying babies.
And how do I move forward from this? I suppose I’ll still go back to work tomorrow. I’ll wake up early, pack my lunch, listen to music on the drive to work. I’ll smile when I see my co workers and my clients. I will say the same things I’ve always said. How are you? What have you been up to? If you were to come and see me again, what sort of things would you like to work on? Please take care. Be well. Be happy. I look forward to speaking with you again soon.
But I won’t be the same, will I? I will be risk aversive. I will second guess every thought. I will space out. I will have a giant lump in my throat. I will stare at the phone. I will be extra cheerful.
Things do get better... I think. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. They always say that you have to fail to succeed. They don’t tell you how much it hurts to fail. How you have to crawl on your hands and knees to gather the shards of yourself back together. How sometimes you don’t want to recover. But things do get better, don’t they? And I don’t mean in the external sense in that the clouds lift, the sun shines, and world hunger is eradicated. I mean inside. I mean that confidence that sneaks up again. That quiet recovery. That weed that you suddenly notice in the barren earth. That willingness to invest.
And will the cycle repeat? Will I topple again? Will I get to the pinnacle and slip? Will I leave another smudge?
I suppose if I’m terrible, they can always fire me. The way I’m feeling tonight, I’d fire me.
They probably don’t see me the way I see myself, though.
RSS Feed