I’ve not written anything here in more than a month and while most of it has been due to not really having anything to say, there is still a part of it that has toed the line of mild depression for the past month. I can safely say “mild” because without the aid of a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor, the last month+ would have gone far worse, so I’m comfortable with the word “mild.”
Really, I’ve just been avoiding all that could be avoided without the loss of first-job in an effort to prevent myself from recognizing my limitations.
I’m getting to I’ve come to a point in my life where every door is not open to me every day and the world is no longer as full of as many possibilities. It’s possible for me to have a goal and strive through the better part of a year toward that goal, but still not meet it in the timeframe I’ve set for myself. It’s possible for me to fail.
I’m unaccustomed to failure. Typically, I excel at whatever project I have and I’ve lost interest and moved onto a new project long before I have a chance to set out long-term goals and see them come to fruition, so failing at a project is new and abhorrent to me.
I know the old adages: I only fail if I fail to get back up again…I’m only beaten if I say I’m beaten…etc., so I know that my inability to meet my timeframe goal is not a death sentence and it doesn’t mean I’ll never get there, but it’s still a failure to achieve something, which means that I actually have limits.
It’s taken me 28 years to come to this realization and I’ll admit that it’s ugly; it tastes like bile, looks like muck, feels like death, ugly.
So…my creation, project, whatever won’t be done on my time table. To say that I’m disappointed is an understatement, but I can at least walk away from this experience recognizing that I have some limits and that is perfectly okay.