I can’t deny how much I love—or dare I say, need—productivity. It helps me pretend I do not hate myself. I only feel satisfied with myself when I am being productive. Read: when I am being the best.
This is a problem I've struggled with for years and years and years. I still have memories from over a decade ago of being trucked here and there to take exams for gifted children—to see whether, as a second-grader, I could measure up against older kids.
I did, of course. Measure up. It’s what I was born and trained to do.
Being praised for my success, intelligence, and talents felt good. My achievements were currency which I could peddle for love, admiration, and affection. Reliable, like the tick of the old grandfather clock in our living room. Whatever effort I poured in, my life spit back out in equal measure. I was rewarded for my work. Whenever I started feeling poorly about myself, I simply wrote more, and achieved more, and won more. After re-establishing my position at the top I felt secure and positive and stable. My perfection guaranteed acceptance; harm done to me was my responsibility, because I had not tried hard enough, not been kind enough, not yet succeeded enough.
It’s the American dream on roids: you are the maker of your own destiny.
I’m writing this not because I’ve found a solution (I haven’t) but because I’m in one of my über-productive phases, which means I’m feeling terrible about myself.
Segue for a moment: The first time I heard the word über was in 7th grade, when a girl in my homeroom class asked our teacher what the word meant in a book she was reading. I never imagined it would become a fixture in our lexicon just a few years later thanks to the startup.
I know that’s irrational—being hard on myself when I’ve reached this point in my life—but then again, humans never are. Nothing has made sense since the pandemic, and probably long before that. Perhaps, ever after that precise moment humans developed out of that single rib or worm or four-legged fish, nothing has made sense. The fact that I have internalized blame because of how I was mistreated as a child by adults who should have known better? That’s ridiculous. Yet, that’s exactly what has happened to me.
To be honest ’ve struggled with writing casually for a long time. People will judge you for the things you say. They might even get upset if you write in a language they don’t understand. They’ll judge you even more when you write in a language you don’t understand. I made that mistake several times over the past year, and I paid for it, I think. You have to be careful with blogs. You also have to be brave. Life always requires bravery; I hate it because sometimes I feel feeble, like a phony. An imposter. Blogs are disgustingly imperfect.
Another segue: The fact that Jhumpa Lahiri wrote an entire book in Italian never ceases to astound me; I can’t imagine even beginning to write a short story in Indonesian. I barely have enough gumption to write English on some days.
Sure, they’re supposed to be—it is their nature to be unpolished, childish, and overpersonal. If I wanted to write something beautiful, I’d pitch it to some magazine, right? Still, it doesn’t help when I see very talented writers publishing beautiful, heartbreaking things on mediums like Substack.
How do they do it?
What do they have that I lack?
Have I not tried hard enough?
How can I do better?
How can I be The Best?
I have to remind myself constantly about the reality of my situation. I am 22. The world will keep turning even if I have not won any awards or published any new, award-winning things. I will continue to breathe despite any so-called laziness. What I consider laziness in myself is actually completely normal; to most other eyes I have done too much for a girl my age. A mantra: Every fear that hounds me is simply the byproduct of an unfortunate childhood. Like the monster under my bed, failure cannot actually kill me. (The role of the parent is twofold: to raise the child and to build upon generational trauma).
Failure and success are just points on a fluctuating line. Like Schrodinger’s cat, I can be two states at once. I can be both failure and success, and, in doing so, be neither.
An inventory which I must continually remind myself of, titled Luck They Had Which You Did Not:
Note: The list isn’t necessarily relevant to me. It might, in fact, be more relevant to you.
Luck They Had Which You Did Not:
- time to read many books a day
- at least 10 more years of (life + professional) experience than you do
- the support of those around them
- money to sustain themselves
- someone who pays them to write beautiful things
- knowledge of how to use a search engine
- awareness of the myriad opportunities and worlds out there
- no children
- a strong upbringing with clear direction
- mentors
I can’t tell you that I’ve let go of my need to be productive and successful because I haven’t. It’s a constant battle to come to terms with myself. On some days I feel like I’ve earned a rest, but most days, I still wake up at inopportune hours thinking I‘ve lost everything. I envy, often, people who have always been told that they are enough. As a result, they don’t feel the need to humiliate themselves with desperate attempts at perfection. They are able to exist and cherish themselves as they are.
As much as I wish I didn’t care–when the light comes in low at the end of the day I am reminded that yes, I do give a fuck. Even though I am trying to give less of a fuck, I continue to think about all that which I have not accomplished and which I must accomplish in order to love myself more. I don’t want this for anyone. I would prefer to be happy with mediocrity. I want to love myself more than this.