It seems that consideration for whether or not I’ve had a raw deal in life is part of my daily routine. I say routine, but the only aspect of my day which is routine is that I wake up. Usually between 11am and midday, unless there’s something important to wake up early for, but there seldom is.
‘Most likely to be a millionaire’ was the certificate I received on the last day of comprehensive school, and given my enterprising nature at the time, I took it to heart. Almost ten years on, and I’m writing this in my small corner of the spare room at my mother’s house. That’s not to say I haven’t tried to spread my proverbial wings.
I registered my first company at the age of sixteen, and can even claim to having rented offices in Cardiff for a few months. I was determined to achieve millionaire status. To prove to everyone in school that they were right to nominate me for that piece of glossy A4 paper. The only minute detail that led to my ultimate downfall, not once, not twice, but countless times over the last decade, has been my utter financial irresponsibility. As soon as any sort of money appeared, I was overwhelmed by the tangible, physical, shiny, capitalistically sculpted options. I wanted to show off, so I did, and by doing so I formed friendships that otherwise would not have existed. They do not exist now. In fact, the most important ties I have are with people who were there long before my narcissistic and ultimately disastrous entry into the real world.
“I am my own worst enemy. A self-aware, self-saboteur, attempting to fulfill a rich and meaningful life without conforming to the socially accepted work ethic.”
Fast forward to now, to this moment in my mother’s spare room. To a point where I can safely say I am no longer motivated by capitalism and money. In fact, I absolutely resent it. I came to a realization years ago after working countless shit jobs, going back to college, (twice) and university (twice) – I simply couldn’t work in a position where I achieved nothing but making someone else wealthy.
‘You’re just lazy’ they shout. ‘You’re no different from anyone else that has to work a shit job all of their life and then die. What right do you have to make this decision?’ they bleat.
‘Well’ I begin to argue, ‘”first and foremost, I am different: we’re all bloody different. You’re just too wrapped up in your tedious day jobs to notice that you’re different.’
It most certainly isn’t laziness. Believe me, I have tried to knuckle down in an unsuspecting little day job. It’s fucking horrible.
One key issue I have that perhaps wasn’t as noticeable in my late teens, but now seriously impacts my daily life, is that I have a form of Hereditary Spastic Paraplegia. That’s right I’m a certifiable spaz. Not suitable for heavy lifting or physical work,. Not that I avoid it. I enjoy it, but must prepare myself for being written off for a few days following. That writes off a lot of jobs in this area, or indeed any area.
Most worryingly of all-I have been suffering from mysterious stomach migraines for the last two years that appear with no warning. The idea of failing at another job due to this random bout of illness is probably what leads to the anxiety that triggers them in the first place. It’s a catch 22.
So what do I do now? Well, I’m busy, which is good. I have an overactive and deeply critical mind. I am my own worst enemy. A self-aware, self-saboteur, attempting to fulfill a rich and meaningful life without conforming to the socially accepted work ethic.
Most Mondays I drive my dad around and help him out on his chimney sweep rounds (yes, honest). Sometimes I get a bit of website work. That’s it. At least with regards to earning an income. I maintain a community garden and help local organizations with websites and social media from time to time. I write for my own website which has never generated the level of readership I had anticipated. However, at the same time, it has lacked the level of commitment it should have had from the start.
A few months ago I realized I needed to start looking for more. I was getting bored, and when that happens I can visit some dark places. So I started scouring for work. My background is exceptionally varied. Web design, CAD design, mechanics, journalism, electrical work, administration, business management, and so on. I know people with Pharmaceutical Science degrees working in KFC. I don’t fancy my varied background to mean a lot.
I am now obligated by the Department of Work and Pensions to apply for work. I don’t mind this obligation. I’m actively looking, but the options in a town with 21,000 people, built on an industry that no longer exists, is pretty bleak. By the time you apply for jobs further afield like Cardiff or Bristol, you already know that countless other candidates have applied with more experience and certificates than you.
School never set us up for this. There was no discussion about a struggle in the future. No one told you to manage your expectations. No one said the odds of finding work, to lead a meaningful existence without being a slave to capitalism, would be impossible. We were all mis-sold expectations. It can’t possibly be wrong of me to want more out of life than slumming it everyday. Is it? Or is it something we just have to succumb to? I don’t want to, because I know I’ll be miserable. But as it stands, I’m missing out on life anyway by not being able to afford it.
Am I right or wrong in feeling so guilty about wanting to be happy?
Jacob is an idiosyncratic writer, musician and chimney sweep from South Wales. Not being a fan of reality he uses these creative avenues, or filthy tubes as means to escape the real world or highlight the chronic flaws with what we, as a collective have created. Everything he owns is held together with duct tape. A damn good coffee gets him through the day.