F is for Fail

I can’t do this. Clearly. I’ve failed again this week to secure employment. The reason given for why – because I haven’t done enough publishing. But that’s because I have sent my writing to the interviewer and badgered and badgered him for it back – but it’s still not returned, for me to publish. He’ll get to it, he says. I can’t play these games. I’m not cut out for academia.


I’m not cut out for life, either. I spent over ten years with someone who emotionally abused me, had a dark, secret life and is now awaiting a sentence that could be custodial. I became a bubbling cauldron of worry because my father visited for the weekend. I am panicking about my mother’s suggestion I see her next weekend. I should be grateful to see them, as they are, not concerned with the forgetfulness, the smothering, the extremes of being. My father: so when will you start the medical 18-month thing? How will it improve your walking? I have explained to him, many times. I promise.

I am failing therapy. The next time I self-harm, I’m suspended. I want to tear myself apart for being so selfish and anxious and rubbish. I am waiting with bated breath for the next time I cross the line, break down. Maybe this time, it’ll make me irrevocably unemployable. I am still going into schools; hearing from children – bullying, friends. Social milieu. I am unsteady; unsure how to respond to them; pass the conch to their teacher. Never touch a child in love or anger. I never have. I want to tear myself apart. I can only say that so many times. I think the therapy group are tired of hearing it. I should just suck it up. Carry on. People do feel that way. They get on with life anyway.

The suicidal thoughts chant through the academic writing – chant over the Taizé music. I rebutt them like recalcitrant children. The more stressed I am, the louder the thoughts sound. Three months I’ve been there now; they haven’t subsided. How much longer?

If I’m no longer an academic, if I’m no good at speaking up, and no good in work with schools, I’m not sure who I am keeping alive anymore. I feel dead and empty inside.  I have failed.




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2 Responses to F is for Fail

  1. Maybe tell your interviewer that he’s playing games? (Or making excuses.)

    But I simply do not understand the threat of sanctions from therapy because you’re showing signs of your illness. That has to be nonsense.

    You’re in my thoughts and prayers. And anytime you just need to bolt please just shout. You are welcome anytime.



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