Too often I’d wonder what it felt like to be good at something, have it all figured out and have plans work out exactly how we wished them to be. Through a whirlwind of decisions and consequences, somehow life led me to a path unknown; finding comfort in failures and somehow being comfortable with it.
When you never fit the bill for a 9 to 5 Job, and it’s easy to convince myself that it just isn’t for me — I look to what does work, and tend to stick to it.
Working too fast and being overtly dedicated, taught me that when I didn’t have the things that I could focus on; I was depressed.
Which is when I started noticing a pattern within myself, I “need” something to keep working on otherwise I feel like a complete piece of shit.
I “need” to be able to set a goal and achieve it, so that I can feel like Dwayne Johnson or David Goggins; but without them I’m nothing, really.
When I can’t write, I turn to boxing, when I’m done with boxing, I do research, when I complete research, I work on my writing, and it’s a circle of “things I need to do” to constantly feel relevant.
Hit pause, tell me to stop; take a break — and I’m back at it again.
Can’t shut it down, and it’s not healthy.
Being “too motivated” was just an escape, it was an escape from dealing with depression and to keep moving was my way of running away from it all.
When confronted with “not having anything to do”; I’m just sad — and I’d rather not complain about it because I don’t want it to seem like whining because I know all too well how many people would love to be in my place.
“You seem to have it all figured out” — I don’t. I just pretend I do.
I’ve built a program for myself which has worked for so long, but it’s times like this when I have absolutely nothing to do that I ask myself “What the hell are you, if not without these things that you keep focusing on?”; when I know damn well, they’re just distractions.
I love the things that I do, but without them — I don’t really know what my identity really is; I’m just someone who knows how to deal with life by focusing on something that works.
Soon I’ll be 30, and all by college friends are talking about their “future”; I’ve got weddings invitations for 2020, and I’ve got heaps of flights to arrange and errands to run.
The realisation that nobody else seems to think about it, is daunting enough.
“Do you ever slow down and think what you’d do if you don’t have anything to work on?” — well I guess I’d just relax, take a break.
Problem is I can’t, breaks a depressing and I hate holidays.
I hate the idea of not having something to work on, because somewhere along this pursuit my “work” became my “identity”.
Without it, I have no idea who I am.
I’m a product of too much self-reflection, and an idealist who somehow convinces himself that everything is working the way it should.
That there’s a bigger picture to this all, when at times it’s just mundane and there’s really not much more to it.
When I do slow down, stop doing the things that I do — I’m lying in my bed and browsing through the internet like a lost wanderer, laughing at silly things and finding a distraction until it’s time to go to bed.
I look back at my failures in life, and realise how good it felt — because it motivated me that I had something to work towards; a goal.
Failure was fucking great, it gave me a sense of purpose.
I knew what to fix and how to fix it and the joy that it brought me when it did finally work.
Being content with failure was and still is; the great joy of all — and horrible as it sounds.
Failure was and has always felt great.
It felt human.
In this pursuit that I drowned myself in, I forgot to take a moment to appreciate what I’d achieve because I was moving too fast and couldn’t waste a second.
Because then I’d have a “reason” — a reason to chalk it up to another misfortune.