I'm a massive failure

I come from a short line of incredibly stubborn, judgmental women. If you've ever seen that video of a bulldog knocking over trash cans - it's pretty much that. A group of short, flat-faced creatures sees an obstacle entirely out of their way that has no reason to even bother them and makes it their biggest adversary.

I say 'short line' because my grandmother, may any deity you can imagine bless her soul, is even a decade after her death, remembered and mourned by every neighbor. Unfortunately, as it turns out, any kindness in your upbringing can easily be wiped away by someone making fun of you for being the 'poor one' with pigs in their yard.

In the eyes of the aunties, cousins and assorted members of our vitriolic dynasty (and, honestly, my mom, but she'd never say it to my face ever since she realized phones have a block function) - I am a failure in many aspects.

I am the proverbial (and almost literal, given the lack of color in my wardrobe) black sheep of the family. This is made even worse by the fact that they can't use me as a bad example because—oh my, the audacity of me—despite all the failures, I seem happy.

The biggest dishonor I dared bring to our family was dropping out of university. Look, I get it. They fought tooth and nail in a regime that didn't want women educated to get their degrees. And I thought this is where the judgement originally came from—them being worried about my future, my career prospects.

The truth came out after I worked my ass off and built up my career, no degrees, all vibes.

"It's not going to make anyone think you're smart."

"Your high school classmate is a doctor now; we're all so proud of her."

"We could get you enrolled through Auntie A connections. You wouldn't even need to get good grades; just get a degree and be respectable."

"What will the rest of the village think?"

I didn't make it easier for them in my love life either. Somewhere amidst all my girlbossing, I acquired a long-term boyfriend. Our subsequent break up prompted another grief support group that encircled me at a random family get-together.

"Did you think this through? You're getting older; it will be hard to find someone else."

"You are kind of direct; men don't like that."

"Not everyone is going to want damaged goods. Did you REALLY think this through?"

"But the rest of the village thought you were getting married soon."

I contemplated telling them the only damaged goods were our coffee table, which he threw against the wall two weeks ago because he wasn't quite ready to redirect that anger where he really wanted to. I decided against it and just reaffirmed that I had, indeed, thought this through.

If you're wondering why 'damaged goods' became a part of the conversation, it somehow wasn't about any lost purity (I know, around 30% of the Bulldog Council is heavily religious, so I thought it would go in that direction). I failed at...I don't know, not getting stuck by needles dipped in colorful ink. I mean, it does cause some pretty gnarly temporary damage, but I'd call my tattooed self 'limited edition.'

I'm not sure what the rest of the village thinks about my appearance, but I'd assume, based on the aunties' insistence I cover myself every time I set foot in the vicinity of our unused pig pen, the entire corn harvest season is spent on village-wide shitting on my constructivism-inspired right sleeve. Which - valid. I guess the old folks have always struck me as more of a trash polka style sort.

The thing is, the trash can my wonderful bulldog family decided to knock over wasn't that I am a living failure who even sometimes fails at breathing (hello, allergies). It's that I refuse to recognize it, to own up to it.

I overheard it once. Whispered near the now-empty barn. "She doesn't deserve to be happy, she keeps fucking up, why doesn't she learn?" The audacity of my career, loving partner, and chaotic little home bursting at the seams with all our pets. All inferior choices, apparently, that I fail to recognize as such.

It didn't hurt me; it just made me sad for them, throwing their small, stubborn frames against something their little, near-sighted eyes consider a worthy opponent that needs to be taken out. How dare I not see the failure I am?

You see, many things in my life don't have a gold star.

I started learning a few foreign languages. I (extremely briefly) tried cross-fit. I enrolled at another university only to realize, one semester in, that the quality of education there just wasn't worth wasting my weekends. I dated people who ended up having different life goals and remained friends with them. I bought 3D printers. I signed up my dog for a sheepherding course only to find out she viewed them as her big fuzzy overlords that require presenting tummy and smooching faces.

If you ask my aunties, I just listed unforgivable fuckups that will be the topic of discussions at the village for decades to come.

If you ask the village, they'd say, "Who? Oh, Granny A's granddaughter? May she rest in peace. What a wonderful woman she was."

If you ask me, the past several years were fun. Some money was spent unwisely (looking at you, 3D printers), but other than that, I did some cool shit. Girlbossed, got married, hoarded cats (I couldn’t figure out how to alliterate here).

What I'm getting at with this is - if I took Bulldog Coven's words to heart, I'd probably be sprawled somewhere out there, all the recycling spilling out into the street, the cans of my fragile feelings clattering down the village road.

Unfortunately for them, I possess the same blind determination; I just consider going out of my way to knock shit over too exhausting. I'll walk around the block, sniffing every blade of grass in my way, and if somebody tries to pull me around on a leash, I simply plop down on my back in protest. You can drag me, but my chunky little legs will stick out in the air, the little bulldog brain cell blissfully watching the clouds.

Listen, I know y'all have someone in your life, someone who tries to knock over your trash can. Maybe it's you; maybe your canine brain insists on barking at you day and night, telling you how much of a failure you are.

Don't listen to them.* Yeah, sometimes we fuck up, and sometimes it's a big one, and sometimes we are one hundred percent at fault. Pour emotions into your art and honest conversations, but don't pour them into things that didn't work out.

*I ran this post through Grammarly, which helpfully suggested I should sound more diplomatic and replace this sentence with "Could you not listen to them?" No, we don't do diplomacy over here; it's all militant positivity, Grammarly.