I completely bombed my essay.
You know, I knew I would. It wasn’t good. It’s my first one and I just didn’t ‘get it’. I also have a thousand and one excuses about why I failed, some valid, some a bit of a stretch, but it doesn’t matter. Bottom line is, I did fail.
But it’s totally okay because it was the submission of the fist draft so I get another shot at sucking! Yaaaay #sarcasm.
In case you haven’t noticed this is where the depression and anxiety proves that it still has control over me. Most people would see the bad grade and either say ‘Well, I know where I can improve!’ or they’ll be bummed for a little while and then get back on the metaphorical horse. Not me mate.
No, I get to sit here, wallowing in self pity, shame, and anger, whilst the lump in my throat gets higher, my headache pounds harder, and my eyes get wetter. Why? Why can’t I be one of the other two kinds of people? Why is it that every time life gives me lemons I have to be that one guy that squirts juice in their eye?
I have a solid hour child-and-husband-free to record my oral presentation, which I was actually really excited about. But now I’ve read my feedback and I’m about four and a half tears off retreating to my room and resuming the foetal position. I can’t get back in the zone. And I don’t even have the option of putting it off until I’m in a better place for three reasons:
- It is a group project. I can’t let the others down.
- The chance of me getting another block of child-free time is about as likely as #biggestlittle getting his aim completely right and me not stepping in pee.
- The chance of me ever actually being in a better place is even less likely than point number two.
So here I am, doing what I always do when I’m feeling completely overwhelmed with an emotion – blogging. I can’t say it has helped this time. The lump is still slowly growing bigger. I’m not sure how to snap out of it.
I can’t tell anyone that my essay received less marks than my husband would on Australian Idol. At least not 1:1 – here family, friends…this is what you get. I don’t want to talk about it. Don’t go telling me I’m not a failure, there’s no point at the moment. I know you don’t think I am. You all think I’m smart, you think I’m a talented writer, you think I’m witty. Well no offence but maybe you all need to rethink who you’re spending your time with because I see smart people in my Uni discussion and I am definitely not on par with them. I’m just average and I feel even more and more average every time I log in.
Yes, this is a pity party post. #sorrynotsorry I needed it.
How do mothers do it? No, seriously. How do other mothers parent three kids close in age, and achieve great marks on their work? How do they do it all without failing? Can someone write a book? I’m sure someone already has. Hell maybe I should – ‘How to host a pity party when you fail everybody who thinks you’re special, because you’re actually of average intelligence’ I can see a whole series! ‘How to host a pity party when you realise you’ve failed your children because instead of excelling at University and showing them you can achieve anything, you’ve actually just bombed out and made it clear they shouldn’t even bother trying!’ or ‘How to host a pity party when your husband realises that he married a drop-kick with no direction in life!’
Wow. What a dark place I’m in. I need old mate coffee to come and pull me out. I’m hitting pause.
We’re out of sweetener.
‘How to post a pity party when you can’t make a coffee because you’ve run out of sweetener and you refuse to drink it without because it tastes like singed butt hairs.’
Yep, that one will be a best-seller. Look out J.K Rowling, I’m coming for your crown.