So. It’s over. Nine years of doing a job I was patently unsuited for, a job that stretched me beyond endurance, a job that I took great pride in, even as it broke me. A job that took me to the point where I chose death over living. Then five years of struggle, and fighting, and arguing. And now it’s gone. All I can see from those five years is wreckage.
What do I have, from all those years? I’m unemployed. Unemployable. I have no skills, no talents, no experience I can transfer. I briefly entertained thoughts of being a writer. I wrote. Then I realised it was just another way of wasting my life. Blogging? All well and good. Doesn’t mean anything though. It’s not going to change my life, or yours, or theirs. It’s not going to earn me any respect, in fact, rather the opposite. I’m not going to win prizes, have doors opened, have people who value my words, my opinions, my rambling on about a load of bollocks.
I’m 35. I have nothing to offer. I can’t ever see myself in a position where I have anything to offer. Constantly comparing myself to those who are valued isn’t helpful. But that’s what’s going on. I’m not depressed, I’m just realistic. I can spend whole days trying to help other people, offering my ideas, but in the end… What I say and do counts for nothing. Poor, obscure, plain, and little.
I thought I was clinging to the wreckage. But the wreckage was splinters.