A fault of my own

I'm a coward, an absolute wuss who is afraid of life. I came to this conclusion after spending last night at a party with the people I used to work with. We all gathered to celebrate Jennifer's move to Germany in a couple weeks, and I wished to God I'd had something interesting, positive, exciting to tell these people -- these friends -- I'd done since the big layoff. It's true I've traveled a bit here and there (and much more than I'd done in my life), but none of it could compare to the cool places these people had gone to in addition to keeping exciting journalistic careers. It gets worse: Since last March, one of my former colleagues has gotten married, another had a gorgeous baby girl, another is a soon-to-be mother... and I'm just me. I fail in all accounts.

So I asked myself why, in the span of time since my editor position was eliminated, have I not found a steady source of work. Do you know what my answer was? Fear. I am terrified of the job hunt, of interviewing, of working, of putting myself out there for the world to judge. What if I can't find anything? What if not one manager deems me worthy of a regular position? Or worse, what if I land a job doing the simplest of tasks that somehow turn out to be too difficult for me to get the hang of? I cannot bear to watch another job slip away. I thought by not settling on anything I was keeping my options open, when in reality, my not deciding was a way of choosing. I chose to be a loser. I chose to be a disappointment. I chose to hide the tears as my younger siblings make jokes at my expense in front of me and, most likely, behind my back. Being laid off is like a wound that can heal with the help of medicine, except I have let mine fester and rot to the point of needing amputation. And it's all my fault.