Ever felt like a real big loser?
Oh hey me too. Let's talk about it.
More vulnerability, yippee.
Half a decade or more ago:
Its summertime and sunny.
I’m competing in my first sprint triathlon as a competitor in all three events: swim → bike → run. I have done triathlon single event relays, I have done duathlons, I have run 5ks, 10ks, half-marathons, one marathon, and I have not swam in a race ever. I’m not an endurance athlete, I’m slow, but I like the feeling of these events, the people, and learning that if I put one foot in front of the other, I can get to a finish line. Half-dehydrated and chafed to hell and back, but to the finish line I arrive.
I’m six months into working through a mid-twenties break up and it’s not going well. I’m competing by myself with no one to cheer me on or run pit crew help. I’m hoping I don’t blow a tire or a shoelace or have a gastrointestinal emergency by the side of the road. I have just slept on a childhood friend’s couch which was as comfortable as several salad croutons stuck together with melted cheese. I’m staring down the barrel of less than 6 months left until I’m exiting active duty military service. I have not been swimming like my training plan says I should. I did not eat breakfast.
Background framed, scene set.
In this race story I was the opposite of Secretariat. The inverse of the Seabiscut underdog. Usain Not-Bolt if you will. It was going so badly that while I was swimming (paddling with all four limbs in all directions at once), the entirety of the water safety crew was puttering behind me as I splashed to the boat ramp. The boat observer, the paddle boarders, and the ever so helpful lifeguard in the kayak who leaned over and told me, “you’re the safest person in this whole lake right now!” (Honestly, I hope she spilled coffee on her lap on the drive home.) They were all behind me because there wasn’t anyone else in the water. I wasn’t just last in the swim, I was dead last overall. The very last person to come straggling out of the lake, attempting to extricate my arms from my wetsuit while a couple observers half-heartedly clapped, getting my hand stuck in my stupid swim cap, and jogging to the transition area where it was empty except for my one, lonely bicycle.
I have never felt like a bigger loser in my entire life.
Quite literally the entire roster of competitors in this highly populated outlying Seattle area race had swam faster than me. Every single 50, 60, 70, and 80 year old competitor had out swam 20s something me and was free wheeling their way to the finish line. After uncasing myself from my wetsuit and jamming my shoes on, I climbed onto my bicycle and pedaled like Zeus himself was sitting on my rear wheel with a lighting bolt up my keister. I pulled past exactly two people in the cycling portion. Next transition sees me hopping off the bicycle and into the run, where I distinctly remember passing one person. Maybe there were more, but my memory at this point is vague and so I’m sticking with one. I finish the race. Not dead last, but not exactly one for the reader board either. Not the top 10, more like the last 10.
I drive home feeling a weird mixture of proud, sad, and wildly disheartened feelings.
Three or four years later:
It’s fall and raining.
Me and the dogs have moved back to Alaska. I’ve turned 30. I’m severely single.1 I’m no longer in the military, but I am in *therapy*. I’m living in a bedroom in a duplex I bought with my sister and her husband and we’re all sharing the upstairs while we demo the downstairs unit. By demo I mean one half of the foundation failed and at some point in the next six months the downstairs floor will be dirt. I’m intensely grateful for V and T and desperately worried I’m ruining everything by existing with my inner feelings of chaos near them.
They’ve had their first baby. I’m failing my online college classes.
The town where I live is on an island and everything is still closed because of the pandemic, not even the library is open. It is gray and dreary and I’m desperately trying to hold myself together and failing miserably at it. My friends are doing well despite the pandemonium and posting pictures to Instagram of vacations and new houses and college graduations and travel and boyfriends and girlfriends and weddings and babies and incredible professional achievements (Yay, you made it! I’m so proud of you! Always knew you’d get here!) and I’m chipping old tile out of creepy corners of the downstairs.
In normal times I’m not a jealous person, so I really can’t muster up the emotional fortitude to be jealous now. Emotional fortitude? What’s that? Instead I range from feeling deeply, deeply blessed and thankful to hold my nephew every single day of his baby life and having this house that will definitely be something someday and being able to work and being near my family during this insanity and also deeply, deeply guilty that I want to pack everything back up (right now, immediately, get in the truck) and go just about anywhere that has sunshine warmth, backroad drives, and people who genuinely like me. There are days I absolutely do not understand what is wrong with me (hi grief, hi exhaustion) and I want to just turn my brain off for a minute. I spend more time crying while driving than is recommended and I remain thankful that my sister retains her sensibilities and talks me out of things. I gain a solid 35 pounds and hate the way I look.
I get so tired of hearing myself talk about any of this shit.
Just shut up already.
Be grateful.
Work on the house.
I feel like a really big loser.
Now:
It’s late summer and sunny. I’m eating watermelon and apple slices in the face warming sunshine with the dogs waiting nearby for their pieces. Katie is 10 and getting awfully gray. Samson is almost six and slowing down. The day has been near to perfect. Even with the background chaos that surely is always going on. Today it is a murmur and the perfection - the sunshine, the CG helicopter thrumming overhead, the juicy watermelon dripping down my one hand, the book in my other - it’s loud enough to cover the murmur.
I turned 32 this spring and I haven’t been in therapy for quite awhile. I held a house warming party to celebrate the completion of the big house remodel. The tile saw left my kitchen. The dust was finally removed from my dishes. My dad could finally say “done and done” to this massive project, my mom stained a beam and gave me a tomato plant, and we all rejoiced. I moved into my own bedroom and absolutely delighted in hanging my clothes in the closet. I unpacked. For real this time. I’ve had dinner parties. I painted my office a shade of deep green (Under the Sea by Benjamin Moore) that announces quite lovingly - Oh Hello There. I’m currently not working in a full time position but have been delightfully undertaking a part time remote position. WFH in my deep green office? Yes please.
I’m deeply committed to not pretending anymore. About any of it. I don’t entirely understand what’s happened over the last eight months, but some weird switch turned off deep inside my existential goo and I just can’t do it. The pretending, I mean. Not just to others but to myself. So much to myself more than anything. Like, I’m having a hard time lying to myself - like my bullshit meter for Elea has just permanently cracked after falling on the sidewalk and been stuck on off for the last several months. It feels more and more like I severely question the self talk that’s been rumbling beneath the surface or quietly swimming in the depths for far too long. The self talk that quietly mutters,
“you do understand that you’re never going to amount to anything right? Thirty-two and no real career? Still? No husband? No kids? No high paying job or graduate degree to cover those other glaring lacks? No business you throw yourself into? No culturally acceptable plan to remedy these supposed deficiencies with immediate haste? Big FAT L-O-S-E-R.”
Of course this self talk is then immediately drowned out by the other snide interior voice that rebuts with,
“you do know there are people in the world right now with serious problems and people who would love to be in your single, low-responsibility, independent shoes, right? People who would write every single day like they say they want to. People who would be taking better care of their health, choosing to sacrifice and WORK to make their dreams happen, being grateful everyday for the opportunities that are all right there ALL THE TIME.”
And then it's all made worse by logging onto some online media source and being told by some internet stranger in a random article that you’re a privileged, ungrateful boob because you have electricity.
So I’ve fired the inner voices because they were doing a terrible job and lied about their resumes.2 This last year has shown me that. You and I are allowed to feel like losers and to some extent there may be times when we are (dead last in the swim remember? By pure definition I did indeed lose), but honestly, and this is where it get tough, you are not allowed to call yourself a loser forever and ever amen because you are trying to live your life. Fire that voice that tells you you’re never going to amount to anything when you’re only 32. That’s entirely a lie, one only has to crack a history book or type in a google search bar to know that. Plus, who's defining what that that thing is that I’m supposed to be amounting to? Hm? Fire the voice that mutters that you should be this or you should be that, when you know damn well that you’re doing your good and your paying your bills and your being kind to the dogs and your spending time with people you love an your working on your writing and you’ll figure out the job thing and for God’s sake just go for a walk even when its raining.
There’s always more work to do, I know that. I know. But I’ve permanently put to rest this notion of being a loser when I’m not actually losing at something. I’m not a loser in life because it’s not going according to my plan from 12 years ago. I’m not a loser for feeling bad sometimes or for long periods of time. You’re not a loser, even if you sometimes feel that way. And if you really, truly are in last place then just picture a snooty lifeguard shouting, “you’re the safest person in this whole lake right now!” and maybe set aside some time to practice swimming next time.
XO,
Elea
P.S. I promise we will get back to books. I promise.
By severely, I don’t mean like “ she’s severely burned sir”, I mean like - “I feel so badly about the entire concept of a relationship right now that I am essentially a walking bruise. Don’t touch me”.
Both resumes said “ good communication skills”. Poppycock.
👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻
I love you ♥️