working in an office somewhere,
and by day three of 9am starts I’m
casting about in despair, moaning,
“What is this unmitigated hell?”)
What haunts me is the lingering
feeling that all that effort hasn’t
really amounted to anything of
worth. See, I was one of those
kids who had adult-sanctified,
capital-P Potential. Academically
gifted, articulate and engaged, I
skipped year 2 and never looked
back. After leaving school, I entered
Law with purpose – “I’m going to
be a human rights or environment
lawyer,” I would tell people at
every opportunity. Well-meaning
grown-ups would make comments
about me becoming a politician
one day. I’d eat it all up with a
smarmy grin. “Maybe,” I’d say.
“I’d like to make a difference.”
But things changed, quite fast.
As my teens gave way to my 20s,
I grew to loathe the law. Instead,
I discovered performance, comedy
and writing. Over time, these took
on the outlines of a career, a pursuit
that meant I never had to exhume
my law degree (a piece of paper
of so little interest to me that to
this day, I have absolutely no idea
where it might be). And now I’m a
writer. Isn’t that something? Isn’t
that just goddamn admirable?
Here’s what I’ve learnt: writing is
a selfish act that masquerades as
being important. My greatest fear
is that I’ve accepted that to be true,
and it’s still good enough for me.
This is what I think they could
say, those people I love. All the
knowledge you’ve accumulated,
the hours you’ve put in, have only
ever been about making your own
existence more comfortable. That
you had a brain that could have
taken you places, changed things,
made a difference, and instead
you used it to chase good times,
convenient briefs and vanity
projects. Is that all you aspired to?
But they wouldn’t say that,
obviously. They’re my friends. And
accepting that darkened part of each
other is how we know it’s real.
By
Eleanor
Robertson
I’m a bitjealousofpeoplewho
actuallyhaveonebiggestfear.
It seemslikeacomparatively
organisedandrationalwayto
be scaredofthings.It’sasystem
of objectivemeasurement:a
yardstickofTheWorstPossible
Outcomeagainstwhichyou
can measureallthelesser
horrors.Isthatcomfortingin
times ofterror?“Ah,wellIam
being chasedaroundaderelict
cyanidefactorybyahatchet-
wieldinggoblin,butthisis
only an8/10onthefearscale.
It couldbesomuchworse!”My ownanxietymakesfarless
sense. It’safeelinginsearchof
an object,likewhentoddlershave
tantrumsoversomethinglike“my
apple istoosmall”–it’snotreally
about theapple.It’saboutthefact
they’retired,overstimulated
or emotionallydrained,and
the meltdownenergyintheir
bodies haspassedacriticallevel.
They’revibratingatanincredible
frequencyandwarningalarms are
going off.Allthesensibleworkers
that pulltheleversinsidetheir
brains havefiledoutinanorderly
mannerforsafetyreasons.The
next thingthathappenstothem,
no matterhowbenignorpleasant,
triggerstheeruption.I’veseen
kids losetheirmindsbecause
“the carsmellsdifferent”or“cats
cannot talk”.Thisismuchcloser
to the operatingrulesofmyfear.I used tothinkmybiggestfear
was goingtothedentist,but
then I wenttothedentistand
mostlygotoverit.Iwaselated
afterwards,partlybecausemy
face wasnolongerswollenup
like a plaguebubo,andpartly
becauseIbelievedthetotal
amountofanxietyinmylife
was abouttotakeadive.Ifthe
dentistwasmygreatestfear,
measuring10/10onthepants-shitting scale, then surely it
worked out mathematically that
the worst fear I’d experience in the
future would be lower than that!
I sailed out of the dental surgery
on a cloud, believing 9/10 was
the worst it would get for me from
then on. I should have known that
level of certainty is essentially
applying a ‘KICK ME’ sign to your
own back, directed at the universe.Unsurprisingly, I was wrong.
As it turns out, the total level of
undifferentiated anxiety and fear
I experience is predetermined, and
after that has been decided, it goes
looking for something to attach
itself to. Every day, my anxiety
wakes up, stretches out, has a coffee
to get going, then writes itself a
to-do list. “What am I going to make
Eleanor scared of today? Success?
Failure? Ageing? Humiliation in
front of her peers? Abandonment?
Making some kind of grievous moral
error? Climate change?” It’s an all-
you-can-eat buffet, a resplendent
smorgasbord of possible reasons
to make me feel like shit. There
are a few recurring themes, but
sometimes it gets exotic, too: what
if I ran into a particular foe from
my past on the street, then had to
litigate the reasons we hate each
other? Better spend a good hour
or four gaming out the scenario
so I don’t embarrass myself!The curse of realising this dynamic
too late was that I spent a long time
trying to individually conquer
my fears – a years-long game of
whack-a-mole that left me tired
and bamboozled. The blessing of
finally figuring it out is that the
fears themselves become irrelevant.
It’s the same shit under different
masks. There’s no need to develop
300 different ways to manage the
individual fears; I just have to
manage Fear Itself. This is some
deep stuff, like realising every
M&M colour tastes the same.
My greatest fear today might be
slipping in a puddle, falling on my
bum and taking a passing granny
down with me. But it doesn’t
matter! The puddle is fear. The
injury is fear. The granny is also
fear. And fear I can handle.writers’ piece