hello.
If you’re anything like me, well, so sorry, friend.
But there’s hope for misfit-monsters like us. At least, that’s what they keep telling me. “They” being all the A-Types and positivity junkies.
And, you know:
Inhale—
*All the people who love you and want you to have a satisfying life and stop being so damn mean to yourself because YOLO because fuck the world because why not because don’t let the bastards get you down because the path is the goal because it doesn’t matter in the end because you’re gonna die because in an alternate universe, you’re already dead (but in another, you’re alive again—have fun with that) because death is forever and nothing is forever and this, my friend, this teeny tiny whiff of a blink of an existence is the best case scenario because this is all you got, sorry, not sorry *
—exhale.
Oh, and my therapist. She’s always suggesting I be nicer to myself. I’m sure she’d suggest that to you, too.
Wow. I’ve already apologized twice.
Sorry!
I originally wanted this Stack to be called How to Fail and Feel Good About It. Like, for people who start a search with “how not to fail,” but they know themselves pretty well, so they jump right to “well, just tell me how to feel okay about all this damn failure.”
If that’s you, I like your moxie!
Unfortunately, How to Fail and Feel Good About It is just a glitzy title with no payoff. I mean, I think I fail a lot, so you’re getting your money there, but feel good about it? Feel good about it?? Who do you think I am? Michael Jordan!? Excuse me, kind sir, while I vomit in my hat.
(For anyone who was like, Michael Jordan? That’s a super random namedrop; what’s that all about? Michael Jordan has a famous quote where he talks about the heaps of failure one must endure to have piles of success.)
Nope, this Stack isn’t self-help (even with that hella cool axed title), and I couldn’t let it sound like self-help just because I thought it would be funny and no one was around to tell me different.
Plus, I actually suck a big one at failure. I avoid it at all costs, so I never get better at it. So I can’t in good conscious claim how to do it OR feel good about it, even in a cheeky wink-wink-nudge-nudge way.
Now, if you want a blow-by-blow account of how to torture yourself by thinking obsessively for hours about how you said hello to someone earlier today at the Raley’s (how DARE you!), well, yeah, I’m your Ladypants. I am an excellent worry machine!
I understand very little about getting over oneself. I’m just starting to figure it out, trying to make peace with the myriads of mistakes, disappointments, and extraordinary sabotaging tendencies clamoring in the back of my mind like an order of very loud assassins. I’d like to cease fire and parlay with this glitchy brain craving your approval and simultaneously demanding I stay hidden. (Uh-oh, it’s side-eyeing you at this very moment; don’t show your teeth!) I want to forgive and accept and change and know the difference. And even though my therapist seems to think I might be worthy of such mercy and grace, I can’t quite let myself off the hook yet.
But I’m trying, friends, and I hope you’re trying, too.
Like the wise old Yoda said, “Do or do not. There is no try.” But remember, he said shit all backward and cryptic-like. What he was really saying was, “Whatever you do, there is ONLY try.”
(Oh, let me have this, nerds. Sheesh.)
Trying is the secret sauce on the cheeseburger. The one you order and say, hold the secret sauce, please, because why do they keep adding crazy flavors to these cheeseburgers? Cheeseburgers are perfect the way they are—cheese + burger—no improvement needed. But then, one day, you forget to hold the sauce, dudes, and you’re happily munching away, and halfway through, you’re like, oh shit, there’s secret sauce on this! And you’re about to give the rest to your dog, but you take one more bite for the hell of it, and then you’re like, I GUESS it’s not SO bad . . .
That’s trying: it’s not so bad! It may not be the cheeseburger you wanted, but it’s the cheeseburger you have.
So you may as well, you know, eat it.
(I bet some of you are like, so cheeseburger equals life? And secret sauce equals trying? I’m not sure I get your meaning, Mz. Pants. Is this about trying something new, like secret sauce? Or is it about compromising and eating stuff you’d rather not eat? Frankly, Mz. Pants, I’m confused.)
First of all, thank you for calling me Mz. Pants. I love it. Second, I dunno. I guess I was trying to get you to giggle. And clearly, I FAILED. But I’m OKAY with it because at least I TRIED.
Eh? Eh? I tried? Trying? The secret sauce?? Yes? No?
But also yes??
Okay. So, now that I’ve told you that this thing is not a self-help thing and I’m not qualified to tell anyone how to be okay with anything and also took some time to make dorky statements about cheeseburgers and trying, what’s left? Should I mention what this thing is about?
Or should I apologize one more time?
It DOES kinda feel like I owe somebody an apology.
Maybe that woman I said hello to today?
Love, Amy
SUBSCRIBERS: What happened to The Wilderness Years? It’s still here, just under a new tab. As I hinted at earlier in the month, it feels time to move on to a new project with my Stack, something kinda funny, sorta dark, a little messy and a tiny bit experimental, written from the perspective of me as an adult and dealing with some stuff I’ve been avoiding for a long time, like crippling anxiety and severe lack of self-esteem. I’m interested in discussing and documenting how I’m trying to tackle this shit, finally, in my 48th year. I started therapy about six months ago, and guess what? She wants me to do radical things like make friends and leave the house. Wha???? It’s true.
Some part of me thought I could go to one therapy session, confess I was a shut-in, skip all the hard work, and voila *a brand-new, fully realized Amy Bee*.
Turns out I have to do stuff. Face things. Admit shit. Let myself—gulp—exist in the world. But how the hell do I do that? At 48?!? Please come along with me as I try to work it out. I need some hand-holding, especially as I venture out toward giant goals like speaking in public and tiny goals like, boy, I’d sure like to be brave enough to go get my haircut rather than having to hack at it myself every other month. Such exciting, riveting, titillating stories are ahead, friends! I’d love for all of you to stick around.
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