January 4th 2015
Today I broke down. Mentally. I’d done an hours revision that consisted of 5 minutes copying down one page of notes and 55 minutes of watching videos of Barack Obama responding to hecklers & haters and the like, and then Mum called me down for Paté on toast. (I know there is some kind of accent on one of the letters in Paté but I really cannot be bothered to find out which one it is and where it goes)
They asked me “how’s it going?” RE: revision, and for once I decided to be honest. “Awful.” I said. Normally I’d just avoid the conversation by saying “Yeah alright, thanks” or something else non-descript, but today was different. I told them how it was going, and it was going awfully. I told them how I find it difficult to revise for something that I don’t give a shit about. I told them that I don’t care about my degree anymore. I told them that the thing I hate most about myself is that I have no drive, no motivation, no passion. I told them that there’s nothing I can do to change that. I told them that I hate myself for not giving a shit about anything. I told them that I don’t see how getting this degree is going to make my life better. I told them that I don’t see how it gets me any closer to where I want to be. I told them where I want to be. I told them my five year plan.
I don’t see that my five year plan is affected much by whether or not I get a decent degree. They disagreed.
Here’s an example of how un-motivated I am, I found myself prolonging the argument (because by this point it had become an argument) just so I wasted a bit more time before I had to go back upstairs to revision. And now the argument is over instead of revising I’m writing this whilst listening to The Calling – Wherever You Will Go on repeat.
And I’m asking myself, where will I go? Dad spoke about how he had dreams, he wanted to be a fireman. At 40 years old he effectively quit his job to go through the stages of becoming a fireman, and out of 3000 people he got down to the final six. And he didn’t get it. And then he couldn’t afford to, you know, not have a job anymore so he went back to doing the same job that he’d been doing for the past twenty years.
And although I idolise him in so many ways, I never want to be like my Dad, not in that way at least. I don’t want to work a job I hate five days a week just so my kids can eat. I told him my theory on how life is so short, and I only get one go at it, so why would I waste it doing things I don’t want to do. I don’t like doing things I don’t want to do.
I sat there and cried, and I never cry, because the world was feeling very heavy. And I was feeling very old, and very young at the same time.
Mum said how I’m the most intelligent person she knows, Dad spouted off my honours at school, and how I had so much promise but I went downhill. He made this shape with his arm “/” to demonstrate my decline. And I cried because they were right, of course they were right, they’re my parents.
I am a chronic underachiever with wasted potential.
I said how the one good thing I have done is that I wrote an entire novel. And mum asked me “Where is it now?” And she’s got a point. It’s in the bottom of one of my drawers at Uni underneath a pile of discarded scratchcards and receipts. And that’s just life my dads fireman thing, he went through so much shit to get down to the final six. And when he didn’t get in he dropped it. Just like I dropped my book when my Editor bailed on me. Thing is though, he killed his dream because he had a house to run, bills to pay, and a family to support. I killed mine because of what? Because I am too fucking lazy to do anything about it.
Until tomorrow, I am a chronic underachiever with wasted potential.