Are My Best Days Behind Me?
I always thought I was special or at least a special life was ahead of me.
When I say special I mean beyond average, not the best but certainly a one-of-a-kind. From being a little girl up until early adulthood, I thought a fantastic thing would happen to me: either fame or some kind of amazing achievement even though I had no exceptional skill that would justify this belief. I guess it was a fantasy nourished by fairytales and modern life stories you see in the media to escape a boring everyday life, and on rare occasions witness in real life.
Don’t get me wrong I had my fair amount of good fortune sprinkled over me, I can even say I was luckier than most of my entourage at the time. I married in my late twenties to someone I considered my best friend, we both had good and promising careers in fields we were both passionate about. We experienced amazing travel destinations and enjoyed our lives. We lived abroad in beautiful homes, had two kids, and had a comfortable lifestyle. His career took a great turn and for several years he kept climbing the ladders of success, we even co-founded a business together.
About 5 years ago I started writing fiction, inspiration was flowing. I mostly wrote short stories and novels, I auto-published two of them. I was convinced that was it, in no time I would find an agent or a publisher and my big break would finally come through because I finally found something I loved and was good at! Plus I was consistent, writing anytime I could. I had the time, the money, and a room of my own, perfectly checking every Virginia Woolf’s famous statement box. It was bliss.
Well, the breakthrough did not happen but the exact opposite. Over the years, our financial situation took a toll when my husband resigned to dive into the business we cofounded, in the meantime, things turned sour between us and we parted ways. The business did not take off like we were expecting, overall it became more of a money trap than a money maker. We moved from our beautiful home, and I came back to ground zero or, should I say floor minus 1 with both our kids to France with no job, no house, no husband, very little money, and no time to write. Virginia was pissed. We had to sell the apartment we bought to have a bit of cash to stay afloat. I also parted ways with the literary consultancy I’ve been working with for the past two years. They firmly believed they could help me lock in an agent to represent me, but over time they drifted away. My dreams of being signed and recognized as a fiction writer were crushed to dust in addition to the chaos that my life has become.
I looked for a job for several months, convinced that my experience overseas and profile were a great asset, but I was wrong. I sent hundreds of applications, sometimes spending half a day for one application to submit the perfect CV and custom cover letter. Despite all my efforts, I was barely able to get interviews.
I lived with my mother which I still do today with my two kids, fortunately, I had government social support to help meet my needs and the children’s. I felt like I was in a fairytale that unexpectedly turned into a nightmare. A modern-day Cinderella minus the mean stepsisters, sentenced to pay the high price of running away from a life that wasn’t hers anymore. Needless to say, I hit rock bottom at least close to it, with a flickering hope that I would go through this and come out of it.
Since I‘ve been in a washer machine on a cycle that never ends, you get the picture.
I finally got a job and it’s frankly the only positive thing in my life lately. Everything else looks like a mess and unpredictability. I am terrified at the idea that my best days might be behind me, maybe because I witnessed this happening to my mother 30 years ago. From the day she became a widow, everything has been a struggle, nothing was ever the same. At some point, she managed to find a stable job and I thought she would remarry to a man who was initially a friend, they were a great match, but none of them was ready to compromise on certain things making it impossible for them to commit to each other. She then got sick and had fragile health since then. As a result, she took an early retirement, I’m convinced it was a mistake, she should have worked until she reached the legal age or doctors recommended she stop. I’m trying to convince myself we are not the same person, but I can’t help seeing parallels: I’m not a widow but at about the same age as her my marriage ended, and I’m going through a period of difficult transition and change.
The only difference is I’m more active than her, I’m healthy and I still have dreams lingering in the back of my mind. Sometimes they take the front stage of my thoughts: is it to keep me going or to tease me? I don’t know and does it really matter at this point? The most important thing is that they are not completely dead.
I’m writing again, including on this platform, going back to manuscript editing and drafting step by step. Even though no one is expecting it except me, and no one is praising me or pushing me, I’m still a writer. I’ve registered for once-a-week evening writing classes in September. If I can’t for financial and logistics reasons enroll in a full-time creative writing master program, I can at least improve my skills in other ways. Despite the hurdles of the past couple of months, there’s still a part of me that thinks I’m special, whispering to me in the most desperate times: “Don’t give up. You got this.”
If I’m still standing it’s for a reason, I’m not done here. They might be different from the ones I once knew, but better days are coming. At least today I’m choosing to believe so.
