Over the last few years, I have significantly increased my level of motivation.
Why? I don’t know. Maybe because I realized I was kind of lazy and needed to do something about it. Maybe because I finally stopped betting on the Prince to show up on his white horse and pay all my bills and buy me copious amounts of gifts and just generally take care of my fat ass while I lay around like third base and had a baby every year. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the Lexapro.
Whatever it is, it works. I am an extremely motivated person. As much as I love sleep, I hardly ever do it, because I’m so busy, busy, busy. I like television, but while I’m watching it I’m doing other things; writing budgets, clipping coupons, searching online for more work to take on, writing my book. I never, ever stop.
As my to-do list for the day spilled over into tomorrow, I started thinking.
Why in the hell am I doing this?
Because really? I’m failing pretty spectacularly at almost everything these days.
I get through the day, you know. I walk around with my head held up. I make it to work, on time. I’m usually smiling, even. Sometimes, I even do the right thing, like when I tell a little girl she’s not fat or I laugh when my kid does something insane instead of getting mad and yelling and making both of us miserable.
Inside, though? I’m a big fat mess.
I become more of a mess every day when I get another rejection letter in my email or my mailbox. Sometimes I write something and I think, you know, this is actually good. This is okay. If someone else wrote this, I would read it and laugh. Sometimes I get really nice comments and really nice emails from really nice people and it makes me feel like maybe this isn’t outside of the realm of possibility.
And then? I get smacked back down to reality. Rejection letters are arriving. Almost daily now. Every day I get reminded that I’m not good enough.
Really. What's the point?