There are so many failures littering these past few years, if that’s the way I look at it.
I have wasted a perfectly good brain and excellent grades in university by not finding a PhD. Instead I am the carer for my ASD diagnosed Little Person.
I have not mastered the art of housework. Instead I have acquired a dog who contributes to the need for housework.
I have developed a not insignificant anxiety problem to hang alongside my dusty old depression issue. The anxiety affects my life more significantly than the depression but that’s neither here nor there. I don’t medicate for either of these. Apart from chocolate. (If you have a mental health issue, visit your GP. I would medicate if I could.)
Did I mention I haven’t got a clue on the whole parenting an ASD kid thing? It was my greatest fear when I was pregnant. And now it’s my reality. There. I said it.
But I’m not done yet. Because even with the anxiety and the ASD and the knowledge that no matter how much I try I will never live up to my dreams, I wake up in the morning and I keep trying.
Last week, keep trying meant I slept on the sofa for an hour and a half before the school run.
Today, it means squeezing in half an hour on my novel because through it all I need to keep writing.
So failures come and failures go but I keep keeping on.