Confessions of a Midlife Failure

also, Inside Out 2!

Could never be me! Photo by Erik Mclean on Unsplash

When we watch Pixar movies, my son and I play a fun little game called, “Are you crying yet?” He thinks it’s hilarious how quickly I start tearing up; while I offer him a tissue each time I take one for myself even though he never needs it, whereas I’m ugly crying the second the little white lamp appears next to the Pixar logo. It’s Pavlovian at this point.

We watched Inside Out 2 this weekend, a noble follow-up to the original (although where the hell was Mindy Kaling?!?! DISAPPOINTMENT.) This sequel brought in puberty and new emotions Anxiety, Ennui, Embarrassment, and Envy. The humor and storytelling were the same quality we’ve come to expect from Pixar, but the part that interested me most was how the filmmakers portrayed the development of beliefs.

RIP to the OG Disgust. Image courtesy of Pixar.

In the first part of the movie, Riley holds the belief “I’m a good person” based on memories of herself being kind and a good friend. But as Anxiety comes into play, (mild spoiler alert) Riley’s beliefs morph into "I’m not good enough.” It was brutal to watch this happen to a kid, and also very relatable. (Phew! I am misting over just thinking about it!)

We all pick up beliefs like this, often things we can’t fully articulate, but that drive many of our actions. One of the reasons I’m such a big proponent of therapy is that it’s a place to examine and articulate these beliefs, then decide, “Is this actually something I want to believe? Is there good evidence for this belief?”

For some of us, this “I’m not good enough” belief started when we were small children completely reliant on our parents. If your parents weren’t emotionally attuned to you (for whatever reason) your young brain looked for reasons why, and one of the most common reasons is, “I’m not good enough. If I were more ______, then they would love me.”

This, unfortunately, is me. (Thanks, I hate it!) I needed absolutely everyone to love me. Embarrassing confession time: for most of my life I believed I was going to get this love by becoming famous. From childhood until my early twenties, my plan was to become a working actress, preferably on Broadway. It felt vital that I was loved the world over, so much so that once I died, I’d be remembered for at least fifty years, ideally with my grave becoming a pilgrimage site.

This magical thinking persisted despite the fact that I was only okay at acting and singing, and have a devastating rhythm deficit that will forever preclude me from becoming a triple threat. Neither was I good-looking enough to count on being “discovered” at a mall (ala Cindy Crawford) or Canadian football game (like Pam Anderson.)

What I had was persistence. I started working professionally while I was still in college, scoring a few supporting roles in small productions. I rode buses all over the greater Seattle area to audition. I bought embarrassing postcards with my face plastered across the back so I could send thankyous to casting directors. It was exhausting, the industry was full of narcissistic bullies, and in a final blow to my ambition, I was the subject of escalating sexual harassment from male cast members while acting in a play festival honoring women playwrights and directors. (You truly cannot make this shit up.)

While my inexperience and lack of power gave me little chance of successfully fighting back, I felt awful for accepting their ill treatment, for believing the lie that, as a young actress I was “a dime a dozen” and that, should I complain, there were 200 girls lining up to take my place. I didn’t want to want something so badly that I had to continually betray myself like that, so I quit acting. By then, I was a senior in college, too close to finishing my theater degree to pivot. I was 22 and felt like a failure.

Failure or not, life just kept life-ing. I got married and moved around Europe working odd jobs to put my husband through grad school. Eventually I got pregnant and realized that childcare costs = my entire salary, so I became a stay-at-home mom, which was simultaneously beautiful, overwhelming, and had me questioning what I was doing with my life every day.

But all along, writing was there for me. I wrote travel blogs and funny stories about learning German and reported on ethical shopping and educational disparities. In between I wrote novels, got an agent, and failed to sell any books. In a cruel twist of fate, my agent broke up with me the same day I found out my brother had died.

So here I am, almost forty, zero books published, no acting career, decidedly not famous. I’d be lying if I said I was fine with all of that—I’m not! But I am starting to realize that “fame” is the solution to the wrong problem.

David Sedaris wrote an essay (I can’t remember if it was in Calypso or Happy-Go-Lucky) about inviting his father to one of his readings, which was being held in a large, sold-out theater. Instead of expressing pride at his son’s achievements, his father spends the entire time quibbling that the theater wasn’t actually sold out. Sedaris realizes that his money, fame, and literary accolades will never be enough to impress his dad.

And that’s just it, isn’t it? We think to ourselves, “If only I do _____, then I’ll finally feel successful/good enough/proud of myself.” But the truth is, external accomplishments can’t ever satisfy these internal needs. If I can’t be proud of myself for the work I’m doing right now, there’s no way I’ll ever feel proud of myself for publishing a book. It’s time to learn gratitude, to make a reverse to-do list, to notice and push back when Anxiety whispers, “You’re not good enough.”

Have you seen “Inside Out 2” yet? Which emotion is running your control board most often? What is stopping you from feeling proud of yourself? Would you gnaw off your own arm to be as famous as David Sedaris?

BONUS MATERIALS:

• The Thanks I Hate It subreddit will melt your brain

• still my favorite scene from Inside Out

• also, have you heard of Rodent Men?