I missed all 3 of my posts last week (2xblog and 1xpoem), as I had a bit of a blip – you can read about it on this Twitter thread if you’re interested. Good ol’ mental health. It feels more relevant than ever to share such experiences – especially as it’s #MentalHealthAwarenessWeek2018.
Anyhow, onto today’s post…
I have ridiculously high expectations of myself. I didn’t actually realise that I did, as my thought patterns have become so ingrained over time that they don’t seem like mere thoughts anymore. It feels like I’ve absorbed them. That they are me.
I don’t know exactly where this comes from. As a kid, I used to apply myself diligently to my school work, pushing myself to get the high grades and – better yet – the best in the class. I even remember this being the case at primary school, when even in Years 1 and 2 I remember aiming to “beat” the other cleverest kid in the other form (his names was Jason, and we actually have kept in contact; he did ‘Kumon maths’ from a young age, so that was always a particularly tricky subject in which to beat him!). I remember getting home from school, having some milk and biscuits (strong bones and teeth, mum would ensure we had it twice a day – with our cereal and then a glass after school), watching one of the kids’ programmes on BBC1 or ITV (we didn’t have so much choice then!) and then getting started on my homework around 5pm, or 5.30pm at the latest. Favourite before- and after-school programmes included Tom & Jerry Kids, The Smurfs, The Snorks, The Lampies and Jackie Chan Adventures. Oh, and Aquila, that was amazing. Anyway, it was then homework till 7pm or so, when it was time for dinner-time and Coronation Street. And then I’d chill for the rest of the evenings usually – or, sometimes, especially when secondary (high) school started, finishing off homework after dinner too.
Gosh I remember the homework. All the subjects. Taking so much pride in writing as neatly as I could in my fountain pen… sh*t got real annoying when I made a mistake at the second attempt with my fountain-pen eraser (remember those?!). I was a bit of a neat-freak when it came to homework.
It was all about those good grades. And the competition with classmates. And the kudos – both spoken and unspoken – from my parents and teachers. Mum was (is!) very on top of things after each day asking how our day had gone and if we’d got our homework or test scores back and how we had done and so forth (I should explain at this point that “we” refers to my brother and I).
With my upbringing (good schools) and capabilities, I was always expected to do well at school. And then go on to do something “impressive” at university, and as a career following that. Those were the expectations I felt and put on my own shoulders. In fairness to my parents, unlike other Asian parents, never was I told to do this or that. They just wanted me to be happy, and work hard and honestly (in my Sikh faith, making an honest living is an important theme).
I narrowed down the “impressive options” to medicine – after all, I found science interesting (I’m a curious guy, I find most things interesting!) and I wanted to help people. A match made in heaven. Plus I was an Indian, so wasn’t being a doctor like in the blood or something? Just kidding – but not really.
It seemed to make sense. Though I didn’t fully want to acknowledge it at the time, I had no frickin’ idea what I wanted to do. I mean how could I?! The big wide world out there was very different to the microcosm that was school. How can we expect to decide to do with the rest of our lives if we haven’t even experienced the day-to-day realities of said job? Ridiculous. A rant for another time…
I choose the subjects which were essential and/or “good” for applying to medicine, and I actually ended up bored and hating them. I was much happier with the GCSE’s, perhaps as they were easier, there were more subjects and so more variety for my curious mind, and I guess with less sh*t-my-life-is-starting-to-get-serious-now-and-I-need-to-make-a-decision pressure. I did minimal work over the course of the year and ended up with ABB as my final grades, after a less-than-impressive (by my standards) year 1 (AS-Level) results.
Looking back, Biology had actually been the only one of the three subjects that I took that I had actually enjoyed at GCSE – wow, this is actually a light-bulb moment for me. Writing this down, I realise I wasn’t really interested in those other subjects I took. Weird.
I ended up going to university twice to study other “impressive” subjects at “impressive” places… and dropped out of each after just a year.
You see, I was sent to good schools by parents. I was given an education that they didn’t have. They worked incredibly hard to make a better life for themselves and to give myself and my brother the best possible start in life. We both still live at home, and so really they continue to do that whilst we’re under their roof. I felt duty-bound to do something impressive with this education and life I had been dealt. One that would elevate my success even above that of my parents (after all, I was starting from a high point), and also make them happy and proud.
I’d feel like a failure if I’ve not ‘bettered’ what my parent shave achieved – financially – given the backgrounds that they came from. Even ‘matching’ it wouldn’t feel quite enough, given the circumstances. This is a mindset which is only just beginning to shift.
Ugh, it’s tough. And then I have this £100k salary mark in my mind. Like, where did this come from?! I somehow plucked this out of somewhere and it’s been a goal of mine ever since. Even when I sat down yesterday and realistically decided how much I want to earn in total in the next year, I had that £100k figure creeping there in the back of my mind. And yet, I’d rather even not be working for someone. At least not in the traditional go-into-the-office-and-work-9-to-5 sense.
So this is what I do. I chop and change all the time. I worry, and then I worry, and then I worry some more. All the time these expectations in the back of my mind.
I left a job where I was on the way towards earning that arbitrary amount (seriously, where did it appear from?). I tried doing ‘my own thing’ for a little while I was going to change education and be a rich entrepreneur. Then, I tried coaching. I thought I was going to be this famous coach working with top athletes to help them become superstars. Again, kudos and money springs to mind.
Now (time of writing), I’m looking at writing, with the hopes of becoming an author who makes a lot of money. F*ck, it’s exhausting. Not least because I’m constantly worrying and questioning myself and my abilities, whether I’m doing the right thing, whether I’m spending too much on blogging/marketing, whether I should publish traditionally or self-publish. Aaargh!
Like, WHAT THE F*CK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH MY LIFE?! Again, more on my career struggles here.
What’s the journey here?? Where’s the roadmap??
Recent inner dialogue: do I write a short story first? Then edit it? Then what? Do I waste time + money getting a professional editor at this early stage (when the story is completed)? Do I just put it out there for free? Do I make it available on just Kindle/iBooks, or on other platforms too? Do I start charging eventually? When? Will anyone actually find + read the damn thing in the first place?
Why am I even writing this story? Is it for my own personal joy + creative self-expression, or for the money + fame + kudos from becoming an author? Again, it comes back down to those ridiculously high expectations which I put on my shoulders from the outset, when all this is just an idea in my head and I haven’t even put pen-to-paper yet!
This is what happens to me. And then when I’m connecting with others online, reading their bloggers, looking at their follower counts, seeing the stories they’ve already written… this is when I feel worse, inadequate even, and doubt I am capable and whether I’ll ever get there/ And perhaps at that point I’ll stop before I even get started, not wanting to try and fail. Not wanting the humiliation.
All of this I’m thinking when, at the time of writing, I am barely a week into writing my first story in 15 years (i.e. since creative writing at school in English).
Ridiculous. pressure. and. expectations. doh.
Another example: when I go to the gym, I sometimes pressure myself to have a ‘decent enough’ workout and push myself and be there for a length of time I deem acceptable – pressuring myself to have a ‘good’ workout, rather than praising myself for being at the gym in the first place and doing what I feel.
I worry that I’ll keep failing, and be a bum trying to make ends meet, and with barely enough money – and capability – to function as a self-sustaining adult, let alone with a family to look after further down the line. After all these hopes + the decent start I’d been given in life.. amounting to nothing in the end.
I feel overwhelmed by pressure, and doubt, and fear, and this scenario where I can no longer depend on others (parents, family) to look after me and help me out, that I’m sh*t at DIY, my culinary skills are basic, that when it comes to living on my own or even with a partner, I just won’t be able to cope. Terrifying.
The pressure I put on myself can be overwhelming sometimes. And it’s only when I face it head on and write it down like this, that I realise just how much of it exists, and how it permeates my life + psyche from all angles.
✏ Written: Saturday, 10th March 2018 @ 3.24pm
What about you? 🤷🏽♂️
Do you find yourself putting a lot of pressure on yourself, or not? Is this conscious or subconscious (without you realising it)? Are you doing anything to change this? I’d love to hear about your experiences 💙