Confessions of a Forty-Something F**k Up

by Alexandra Potter

I’m just someone struggling to recognize their messy life in a world of perfect Instagram ones and feeling like a bit of a fuck up. Even worse, a forty-something fuck up. Someone who reads a life-affirming quote and feels exhausted, not inspired.

Because feeling like a fuck up isn’t about being a failure, it’s about being made to feel like one. It’s the pressure and the panic to tick all the boxes and reach all the goals . . . and what happens when you don’t.

What I want to know is, when did busy become better? When did a jam-packed diary become a measure of success?

Some people might name this bully Anxiety or Depression. Others label it a Panic Attack. While many describe it as the famous Black Dog that you can’t chase away. But I simply call it The Fear. A nameless terror that scares the living daylights out of me. Because it’s not like feeling a bit down because you’re broke, or fed up because it’s March and still constant gray skies. The Fear paralyzes you. It grips you by the throat so you can’t breathe and makes your heart thump loud and fast in your ears. It makes you feel like you’re going to die and part of you wants to. That’s why it’s so horrible. Because after it’s finished beating you up, you beat yourself up even more.

(I had no idea how many men who are online dating have climbed Everest. It almost seems a prerequisite to being on a dating app. That summit must be jammed with single men taking selfies for their online profiles.)

“One thing I’ve learned through this bloody awful time is that grief isn’t linear. You can be doing all right, then it will suddenly come out of nowhere. It’s the silly little things that remind you .

Before you know it, you’re annoyed with the person who pushed in front of you in the line and that your train is late. Or gutted because he didn’t text back or someone else at work got that promotion. Does that make you selfish? I think it just makes you human.

If getting older has taught me one thing, it’s that I feel so many conflicting things about so many different things, and to negate or stifle any of them doesn’t make them go away. Emotions don’t necessarily have a moral compass. Feelings can’t be shamed into disappearing. Suppressing and ignoring them will only make them come back to bite you in the therapist’s chair.

I can feel like I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, and refuse to look in mirrors with overhead lighting, and still go on the Women’s March and roar like a motherfucker. I can weep for that father who lost his daughter and pray for the friend I don’t know, and a few days later be scrolling and despairing that I am not taking beach selfies with my handsome husband. And I can marvel at a sunset and think how lucky I am, and wake up in the night with The Fear. Because life is complicated. And so are we.

I keep reading about how we should all be “following our passions,” but I can’t exactly make a living out of looking online at property in the South of France . . .

We’re encouraged to be our true, authentic selves, but being told to feel happy when you’re just not feeling it only encourages us to be the exact opposite. Life can be wonderful but it can also be scary and hard. We should be free to feel sad or gloomy or just downright bloody miserable, without feeling like there’s something wrong with us.

the people who matter will see you, no matter what.”

“I’m eighty-one years old and I’ve learned if there’s one gift you can give yourself in life, it’s the freedom and courage to say ‘I don’t know.’ Because I’ll let you into a secret—you don’t have to know. You don’t have to know how you feel, or what you want, or if you’re happy or if you’re sad.

You never own a book; you just get to look after it until you pass it on to the next person. The same story is different for everyone. Say yes to everything, unless it involves stand-up comedy. Aging is not for sissies. Acknowledge everyone, from the person at the checkout to the driver of the bus to the barista who serves you your coffee.