When I was 21 and romanticizing overdosing on pills or jumping in front of a train, the one thing that really kept me going is thinking that at some point things must get better. At some point in life I become an “adult” and stop being a trainwreck and start functioning as a normal healthy happy human being in the world. Maybe by 25, or 30, or for sure 35 it would all be better.
Fast forward 15 years. Spoiler alert: it hasn’t gotten better. It’s just gotten more humiliating. At 21 at least there is something mildly cute about being a hot mess. At 36, it’s not cute. It’s incredibly painful. It isn’t romantic in the least bit. It’s cry-in-your-car-and-hope-you-can-hold-it-together-so-no-one-really-knows-how-much-of-a-mess-you-are. There is no reason to tell anyone else. They already know. Or they don’t care. No one should care. You are an adult now. Figure it out.
Yet every word that comes out of my mouth in the wrong one. When I’m told I botched a meeting, that I spoke too much (again), that I am given all these chances and I still manage to embarrass myself and my team, I am finally speechless—because it’s all true. I bite my tongue too late and try to come up with a list of ways I can redeem myself. I feel like it’s all futile. Not just this, but everything. I’m clearly broken. Not in a romanticized way. Not in a wanting to swallow a bunch of pills sort of way. Just in a frustrated and tired and sad way. Like — maybe I can at some point figure out a way to pretend to be someone else so people like “me” enough so I can function properly in society? God, I wonder if people actually think I hold myself in high regard, that I think I’m the greatest thing since the invention of avocado toast. No. I don’t. I am not my biggest fan, to say the least.
I’m scared. I realize I’m so fortunate for everything I have. For all the things I’ve had. But everything is so fragile. Everything can break at any second. The moment I start to feel like I’m making progress I fall so much harder. Therapy doesn’t help. My therapist probably thinks I’m a spoiled brat. I don’t have any real problems. Well, I don’t. It shouldn’t be this hard. I just don’t know how to exist. I certainly can’t model ideal behavior after my parents, two people who only listen(ed) to themselves. I’m sure I’m way more like them than I’d ever want to admit. But in a different way. My dad was a know it all. My mom, well, she just thinks the world revolves around her. What do I think? I think I have to constantly prove myself to have worth. I have to earn my space. My right to exist. Except that clearly backfires. So then why do I do this? I don’t have any idea how to be.
I look at my colleagues and admire their confidence and poise and intellect. I recall again and again how I don’t belong here, and yet I don’t belong anywhere so here is just as good as any other place if I can make it work. After all, I have to work. And I want to make it work. I want to exist in this world of rockstars—people I admire, people who are everything I want to be. I figure maybe if I spend enough time around them some of that goodness will rub off. I don’t know. It’s yet another little bit of hope I have. Thinking it’s possible to shift in that direction.
Instead, well, I’m back where I always am. Because I am not them. I don’t know who I am but I’m not this put together, smart and polished person. Maybe sometimes I can create something people appreciate on its own — if only I could disappear entirely that might solve the puzzle. Or, I don’t know. I am running on fumes here. So terrified. I’m trying. I really am and yet it seems the harder I try the worse I come off. This isn’t a post seeking self pity. No. It’s just where I am. A month out from 37. Acknowledging it really doesn’t get better. I don’t get better. I mean, I’m going to keep trying, because that’s what I do. But I’m seeing cliffs in all directions and I don’t know if I can handle falling yet again. I really don’t know how many more times I can take it. But what other choice do I have? Only the one that I don’t want to make. At least there’s that.
life with interest 
Hey, just thought I’d drop by and tell you that someone read your post and can relate.
I’m 37 too, and have struggled with my internal world for quite a bit, but I’ve found most peace in realising that this will never change, and that I was looking at the wrong place by wanting to escape the feelings.
Instead, now I focus my efforts in doing the best that I can, DESPITE how I feel. Yeah, I’ll always feel anxious in social situations, yeah, I’ll always feel terrified of the littlest things, and yeah, the word pleasure is fading from my dictionary, but I can still choose to be kind to that person, or to wake up in the morning even though I’d rather just sleep through the day.
We don’t need to take ownership of what’s happening to us, but we can definitely own up to what we do after that.
Wishing you all the best!
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