Failure is always an option. At least, that’s what Adam Savage used to say back on MythBusters, so when Alexus Yeakel proclaims the importance of failure, I get it.
Still understanding that failure is necessary for innovation and mastery doesn’t make the sting of it any less painful. There is an association with failure and rejection for me—a belief that if I do not succeed the first time, I will lose the love or respect of those who matter to me. With things that aren’t as important, I can mostly bear the mistakes and the failure. Yet with bigger things, like school, I spiral. With work, I rarely make mistakes like that, but work isn’t challenging; it’s tedious. In the jobs I’ve had, things rarely required complex thought. I have actively looked for things to do just to keep my mind from wandering. I say I’m doing things to make things more efficient, but in reality, it’s because it’s all so boring.
Nine Inch Nails’ “Everyday Is Exactly the Same” never feels so real to me as when I’m working secretarial jobs.
When it comes to school, I spiral when I’m failing. I’ll isolate myself from family, avoid the topic, and then withdraw altogether because I can’t stand the angry looks, the disappointment, and the occasional silent treatment. This issue has followed me into my recreational writing. The crazy thing is, I’m writing for myself right now. Or at least, I don’t really let anyone read or see my work. In truth, some things will never have the chance to be seen because I judge them as so horrible that I destroy them. I tear them up and throw them in the trash, only to realize later that I actually loved the way I worded a paragraph.
The thing is, I know intellectually that failure is not horrible. I used to tell my brothers that it was okay to fail, so long as they picked themselves back up and tried again. Hell, my life to this point has been nothing but a series of falling and getting back up again. And while I can see it in others, like my brothers, and give them grace and compassion, I struggle to afford that same level of empathy toward myself. I will lift others up and soothe them endlessly, but when it’s me, I’ll rub my face so far into the dirt that I have to struggle to pull myself out of it before I can even think about going for round two.
It’s funny, if you squint.
Even if it isn’t, you’ve got to laugh about it, because if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry.
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