I thought that I had it all under control. How wrong was I? Well, forget it. That was just rhetorical.

Under control. Sounds so mature and adult.

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But that’s never the case, anyway, with writers, and weird artists, is it.

When I look back on the summer vacations of the kids which rather sooner than later come to a close, I get a little panicky. What is it that I achieved so far? And Spanish summer vacations are long, they are like an aeon. I really hope that school starts over soon. I want to get back to be able to do things again. Get back in the saddle. Get along. Move on.

There is something inside me that feels kind of paralyzed or haunted or even cursed by the recent things I had the doubtful pleasure to be involved in, being the protagonist, one mean want to add.

I feel out of sorts. Emotionally all over the place. Fed up and wasted. Running on empty.

Left alone. Sometimes abandoned by friends.

Misunderstood. THat’s the most awful but also powerful feeling of all.

And kind of like this permanent underachiever.

Believe me, would you have the chance to talk to some of my previous teachers or friends who’ve known me from my early tens and until my mid twenties, you’d know that underachiever is not something that springs to mind when talking about me. And yet, recently, my life seems to have amounted to that of a huge failure.

For whom is it worse?

For the one who never had success?

For the one who tasted success and kind of tripped, stumbled and fell?

For the one who was always successful?

And what’s more? Is it true? Is this what I am? A failure.

Society wise, I am probably one. Mother, not even holding down a decent job in more than ten years. Always jobbing in McJobs. Not getting anywhere. Yes, failure.

Personally, I wouldn’t consider myself that much of a failure. I am someone who knows a whole lot of things. I am fluent in a couple of languages, I read a lot, I am on top of things, with my family and with my kids. We have a great life in terms of being a family. That is something that kind of psyches me a lot.

So what happens here? Is this the reason, why I am so unhappy? Don’t I allow myself to be happy just because i don’t have a decent job here? It sure isn’t for the lack of trying. Ibiza is fickle. I think I belong here. But being perceived as a failure by some few outsiders who just look at the very surface of things, that is something I should try to throw overboard. I do feel sad when I find that people only see my outward image and the failure to fit in to a society that doesn’t allow for freaks like me… It does make me feel that they should see my positive traits, it’s something that kind of brings me down. Is this mature? No, it surely isn’t. But I cannot help it. I still feel that everyone should tell me “Attaboy” every once in a while. And I can see that this is where a lot of problems within my life come from. This feeling of wanting to be the winner, the super achiever, the feeling that you can only be loved, if you are the winner.

What happened here? Am I hardwired to be only think I’d be loveable when I win? Do I even have the slightest chance to be happy in life? I feel happy for my kids. Because there seems to be something I must have done right, cos we are so close to each other. They tell me things. I see them grow up as happy and also as self confident little individuals, all with very different personalities. Why can’t I be like this? Why am I still so full of doubts, so unsecure about myself? Why am I still on the edge of everything when I should relax and enjoy life?

The answer seems simple. I just can’t. There are questions inside of me.

Questions that are still not answered. And questions that will never be answered.

Is it this reality shift that doesn’t allow people to step out of this huge shadow that society makes us perceive people without a permanent job? When I was younger, I was very straight-laced, very much the daughter of two doctors, very immune to any social ladder, and absolutely sure that I would never stumble or fall down. So when at age 18 I moved out, things were quite different. I had perceived things through a certain angle that was no longer there. So I rearranged my views. And that was hard, but I managed to do it, or rather undo that which was due to the way I was brought up. I grew up in this middle class family, with two aspiring doctors, and we were three children at home. I was the only girl, the middle child.

I must admit, I am someone who doubts everything. I doubt everyone, every day, every second of my life.

Maybe, writers must be like this, doubting, pondering, doubting again, I thought. But some aren’t like this. So that argument doesn’t cut it either.

There are people who have the most bulletproof egoes I have ever seen. But the truth is I do not belong to them. If you deal with me, doubt will be part of the experience. And it’s not even a conscious decision. It’s inherent in my nature, but somehow the doubt is projected onto me. And I don’t move along smoothly, I always tend to stumble through life, rather than walk upright. This is not effortless motion, it’s a tour de fource. Never mind stepping up a ladder. It’s not in my genes.

Maybe, it’s still my father’s death lingering over my head like a huge dark cloud that kind of hovers around, sometimes leaving me in peace, and sometimes not.

I could really think that this still is affecting me. It might still be the case. But come on, my father and me, we had an ongoing fight who was stronger, throughout my life. And I reckon I kind of gave way, because here he is, beating me to it. It’s not that life with him was always easy, but it was a hell of an intense father-daughter relationship which somehow made me the person I am. So either way, I am thankful for what my dad gave me. Be it his mental skills, his emotional depth, his love for music or his deeply rooted love for nature and more than anything his deep understanding of people as a species. He understood all of them. Correct, he understood all of them, except one. And that was me.

Maybe, it’s the fact that I did not achieve the goals that I set for myself.
What kind of goals were these?

I wanted to move forward. I had this weird impression I wasn’t going anywhere. I so wanted to find a publisher. But as I am writing these lines, I got nothing more than warm words and therefore I am still at ground zero with that. It seems not to happen like this. My novel is finished, but it’s this missing feeling of closure. I am very happy with it, but I cannot seem to find a publisher who is eager enough to publish it.

Maybe it’ll happen but hey, who am I kidding? It gives of the scent of a big fat white lie. Probably nobody wants to read the novel, and I should accept it and move on.

And with all of what happened in between set goals and not achieving them, I had two jobs in between, some money rip offs that happened to me, and more than a handful quite shady job opportunities. It’s just weird. When I apply for a job, people seem to think that I should bring money with me and not the other way round, which made me somewhat reluctant on that front. And I do have a home office, and internet, the right mindset, and what not. But the truth is that I am half employed, half unemployed. Right now the time of being unemployed has just begun.

That again doesn’t help to raise my spirits.

I always look out for new jobs, but it’s somewhat weird to look for a job, that seems to only exist in terms of self-employment. But I can’t do that. I cannot risk making myself self-employed without the perspective of getting a single dollar (or euro) and still be paying 250€ per month to get the bird off the ground. It’s all very tricky.

Some of my friends have been picking on me, calling me irresponsible, calling me worse than irresponsible, making me feel even worse, kind of letting me know that they of course have the patent recipe for all of this. We should all move back to Germany. Oh, how great is that? I would think that after almost seven years of living in Ibiza this is the most insane thing I could of.

I would rather pick stones in a Russian camp for dissidents or eagerly slash my wrists than going back there. I was so suicidal, so damn and downright unhappy and sooooo alone back there. There is no way on this earth that I am going back to this country that made me suffer this much.

So, what am I left with?

I will have to make do.

Maybe, it would be a great time to throw away the expectations I had when I was twelve, and get new ones. Just be happy with who you are. Love who you are and love people around you. And accept life for what it is.

Since I am not really practical, I have been failing at that gloriously. But that’s what true artists are really good at.

Failing.

They make an artful of their broken images and their shattered hopes.

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