On Failure

Shortly before my 16th birthday, I realized adulthood was real. Shortly before my 18th birthday, I realized I would not be turning in my Childhood Brain for a Legal Adult Brain on my birthday.

That was a shocker.

At 20, I still have the same think pan as I did when I was 12. I hear from reputable sources that I should expect the same at 40.

I’m an adult, but I feel as if I shouldn’t be licensed to drive my life. I’m small, afraid, silly and I don’t know squat about how to be a Proper Adult.

As a child I was hailed as being “wise beyond my years” and a well-above-average student. I had gold stars, plaques, certificates, trophies and the praise of many Respectable Adults to prove it. I graduated high school as valedictorian. In college, again, I was singled out as a top student in most of my classes.

But for many years I have felt very small in this huge world. I am not special. I am not “above average.”

I am human.

I am weak. I am broken. I am often scared and lonely. I am not better than the next person. I feel foolish to have to say this, but I feel it must be said again for my own sake:

I am not special.

And I do not want to be special. Not in the sense that I have defined the word. I do not want to be “better than.” I do not want to be perfect or to appear perfect. I physically cannot continue to pretend that I have my life under control. I have come to expect only success from myself, and it is ruining me.

I desperately want to fail.

I want to fail and for the world to keep moving. I want to fail and for the people around me to not withdraw in silent disapproval. I want to fail and realize that I can fail and I will continue to... be. I am not success. I am me. And I will be no less myself if I fail than if I succeed. I am no less valuable or lovable if I fail.

My fear of failure is my worst character trait.

Fine art and writing are my passions. And it is because they are my passions that I have a crippling inability to do either. I do not write in my spare time. I do not paint. I do not draw. I do not craft.

Photography was the one creative avenue that escaped my judgement, because it was easy and  I placed little value on my photos. I used a camera because I enjoyed visually documenting my life. That is all. There was no standard for success or failure.

But today, as I study photography as a potential career, I find myself directing those too-familiar feelings of inadequacy toward my photos. My stomach churns when I have to show someone my work.

Not good enough. Not good enough. Not good enough.

You can see the problem in my thought process there.

The same standard of perfection is what has crippled me from writing, from creating, from exploring. I have shunned opportunities to do new things because with unfamiliarity comes an awkward learning phase that I have been unwilling to deal with. I have passed up so many opportunities because of my standard of perfection.

I desperately want to fail.

Or rather, I want to be okay with failure. I want to wake up excited to try new things, go to unfamiliar places, and meet new and interesting people. I want to enjoy creating without the fear that my creations are “stupid” or “bad.” I want to experiment, learn, and grow each day. I want to be unapologetically, authentically honest with people.

I don’t know how to be this person I desire to be. I am afraid that by letting go of my standard of perfection I will lose the part of me that has earned so much praise. How can I maintain my record of high achievements but also be open to opportunities for creativity and growth (and possibly failure)?

I have known for years that perfectionism is killing me. I can sometimes physically feel the death inside of me. It is dark and horrible and consuming.

This semester my impossibly high standards and poor self-esteem have completely crippled me in my classes and work. Today I fought back tears of shame, self-doubt and loneliness as I sat among my peers in the newspaper staff meeting. I left without saying a word to any of the people who inspire me every day.

I am failing. I am hurting. I am struggling.

And until I become okay with that, I cannot succeed. I need to somehow understand that no one expects perfection from me except for me. I am not and cannot be the person whom I expect myself to be.

I am human. I am weak. I am broken. I am often scared and lonely. I am not better than the next person.

And that’s okay.