A notebook of nutgrafs

I'm bad at being bad at things

B4509D40-E155-4080-8CD7-B9E46B616FE7 My shitty little pots.

Bearblog! It's been a minute — and by a minute, I mean about 18 months. Oops.

In the spirit of my blog about coming of age and being a lost zillennial, I have a life development that I thought I might share to get me back in the swing of writing.

A long-winded preface

About one year ago, I began a new job. This was a pretty big deal for me since it wasn't in the journalism and media industry.

It started out alright. I was working in internal communications for a large company. Still within my original wheelhouse, but out of the scope of the constant grind of the breaking news machine. I was making more money than I had ever made in my (short) career.

Then, I slept through my morning alarm. This wasn't abnormal for me. I have slept through fire alarms before. I have always worked in environments where hours were flexible to accommodate the news cycle, so sleeping too late wasn't necessarily an issue. It was just embarrassing.

A month later, after sleeping through another alarm and being late to a meeting, I was placed on administrative leave while the company decided if I would stay or go.

I had the first panic attack of my life, and I finally realized what people meant when they said it feels like you're dying. I couldn't feel my hands or feet. Air only came in short gasps, and I didn't feel like I was in control of my breathing. My vision whited out, so I stumbled to the couch so I wouldn't hit my head if I passed out.

They left me hanging for about three or four business days before informing me that my employment was terminated.

Well, that was a roundabout way of getting where I needed to be

This ended up becoming the most impactful failure of my life to date.

I am not religious, but I do believe things happen for a reason. For whatever reason the fates decided, I wasn't meant to be in that job.

What this meant, however, was that I was uprooted and transplanted into a new city across state lines where I knew practically nobody. I had signed a lease for an apartment I couldn't afford anymore.

Thanks to the connections that fall in your lap in journalism school, I very quickly found a new job. Part-time, but I'd take what I could get.

Former gifted kid guilt

I was in a downward spiral of anxiety, depression and shame for a long time after that. I considered this new job to be somewhat beneath me because of some journalism industry pretentiousness, but I needed to pay rent without entirely depleting my savings.

That also led to feelings of guilt, because who am I to look down on other people's work?

I was mortified that I lost a job. I wasn't the kind of person who lost jobs. I got all As in high school and graduated college with close to a 4.0 GPA. I was in clubs and honor societies and volunteer organizations that filled my resume. I was never supposed to be this kind of person.

Somewhat quickly, I advanced to full-time at my new job, which was at least a small affirmation that I was capable.

Like I said, things happen for a reason. I'm still in this job a year later, and I am happy. I like my new city. I've made new friends. The weight of shame and guilt isn't quite as heavy anymore, but it still lingers.

Learning not to be bad at being bad at things

I slowly got back on my feet. I paid off the credit cards that had racked up balances while I was making ends meet. But as my workload grew to an overwhelming level, I realized I needed an escape. In an effort to get more acclimated to my community, I signed up for an art class at a local studio.

I've always considered myself artistic, but I'm not particularly good at it. I have the eye and instincts for it, but the technical skill hasn't met that intuition.

It was a ceramics wheel throwing class for beginners, and I was excited about the potential of making friends and potentially learning a new skill.

I was bad at it. Like... easily the worst in the six-person class. I'm not used to being the worst — I'm not always the best, but I can generally hold my own.

Ceramics is frustrating, especially when you're new to it. You can see so clearly in your head what you want to create, but it's as if your hands aren't listening to your brain. My walls collapsed frequently and I couldn't throw anything taller than about three inches.

Even so, after the class ended, I decided I would become a member of the studio, granting me full access to the space and its tools. That was about six months ago, and I maintain my membership today.

I wanted to challenge myself to get comfortable with being bad at something. Generally, if something doesn't click with me, I drop it entirely. I didn't take the AP science courses in high school because I knew I'd struggle. I withdrew my college's choir about a month into my freshman year because I couldn't keep up with everyone else when it came to reading music.

Targeted improvement

It's taught me a few things about myself:

I quickly realized, however, that adulthood doesn't come with a syllabus.

At first, I went to the studio aimlessly, attempting to make something random based entirely on how high I could pull the walls of a piece.

I wasn't improving much, so I started thinking about environments where I had previously improved my skill level at something. I landed on school.

Art classes weren't directionless. The teacher gave us an assignment that targeted a specific skill (i.e. making a coil vase to learn how to roll consistent ropes of clay), and whether we liked it or not, we had to do it.

One of the joys of adulthood is that I have the freedom to only give myself assignments that I actually want to do.

When I keep encountering a problem, I research it online or ask someone sitting next to me what I'm doing wrong, and I learn the technique to fix that problem. I've been having trouble centering, so I go home after a few hours at the studio and I read about how to properly center my clay on the wheel.

I'm still not really that good at pottery, but that's alright. I get to make shitty little pots and dishes for my friends, and they get excited when they get the physical representation of my appreciation of them. When something comes out of the kiln, I get excited to put my hands on it and see how it turned out. No explosions! ...yet.

On we go

Every day when I drive to work, I pass the building of the company at which I would have been if I didn't sleep through a lousy meeting. At first, it hurt. I'd avert my eyes from the skyline and fix them on the white lines of the road ahead.

That sight is just a reminder now. Every once in a while, on the bad days, it prompts a whisper of that pit in my stomach. But mostly, it's a reminder of growth. I overcame something difficult—even if that challenge was due to my own mistakes—and I'm still here. I have work, I have friends, I have family, and I have my shitty little pots.

They might still be a bit wobbly, but they exist, and I am learning to be alright with that.

🥜📊

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Let's talk! Shoot me a comment or start a conversation with me by emailing davstri4077@gmail.com.