I was twenty-six when my wife began saying I had a problem I refused to acknowledge.
She repeated it every time I quit a job or got sacked.
She insisted it wasnt normal for the longest Id held a position to be just six months, and, looking back, she was right.
Sometimes I lasted a month, sometimes a fortnight, and occasionally I didnt even make it through the probation period.
Id done almost everythingmaintenance work, cleaning, sweeping the pavements, scrubbing loo floors, hauling goods in warehouses.
I always started out willing enough, but after a few days the weight became unbearable, both on my back and in my mind.
It wasnt simply the exhaustion that drove me.
It was the shame.
I never finished school; I left after Year 11 and never looked back.
Every time they handed me a hi-vis vest, a broom, or a mop, I felt out of place.
Id watch my co-workers, resigned and quietly getting on with things, and deep inside I would tell myself that this couldnt possibly be my life.
Then I started showing up late, slacking off, searching for excuses to stay away.
Inevitably, the supervisor would call me into the office and tell me not to return.
My wife didnt understand.
Shed worked at a shop for four yearsher wages werent much, but her position was secure.
She knew exactly what shed earn each month.
Whenever I came home jobless again, shed look at me, her face weary and angry.
Shed say, Its not the job thats the issue, its you.
You dont stick it out for anything. Id retort that those jobs werent meant for me, that I was made for something different, that I wasnt born to mop floors forever.
That just made her angrier.
She pushed me to finish school, to learn a trade, to earn some qualifications.
No ones going to hire you for anything else without a certificate, she said.
I always promised her I wouldyet months rolled by and I never enrolled.
Id find excuses: no money, no time, Id do it later.
If Im honest, I was scared to return to school as an adult, sitting among youngsters, feeling out of place and behind.
Home became a routine of arguments.
We kept fighting about the same thing.
She said I lived in dreams, complained I talked big but achieved nothing.
I accused her of giving up, settling for mere survival instead of living fully.
Sometimes we shouted; sometimes we went days without speaking.
Id go out searching for work, a creased CV in my pocket, and return disappointed when all I heard was, Well let you know.
Deep down, I truly did dream.
I wanted to run my own business, not rely on anyone else, not feel ashamed of my uniform.
I dreamed of waking at dawn for something that belonged to me, not for someone elses orders.
But dreams dont pay the rent or put food on the table, and she reminded me of that every day.
Was there really a problem I refused to admit, or did I just have the right to hope for something greater?
