By accepting failure, i’ve accepted myself as a failure. I felt like being prepared for failure would help me, but i never thought it would make things worse to the point i stopped thinking i could achieve anything. I thought it would help me get less focused on perfection. I thought it was easier to just assume the worst. And sometimes i don’t know whether i’m just acting myself out or whether the real me is coming out, in moments when i’m not paralyzed by fear and insecurity. I’m terrified that what i am now is what i’ll be for the rest of my life. But sometimes i’m scared that person is long gone by now. I’m acting because i’m afraid i’ll forget who i once was.
Isn’t it ironic? That i’m acting like me? For the sole purpose of not losing myself.
A battle between the real me, somewhere buried deep inside underneath layers and layers of anxiety and negativity, and new me whom i refuse to become. It’s funny how i went from ‘I can do it, because i want to!’ to ‘I can’t do this, even though i want to.’ Because ‘not good enough’ wasn’t an option. The others looking at me when they didn’t know what to do, because they knew i did. Failing was learning, as long as i got to be the best at the end of the day. Weeks of no sleep and tirelessly twisting and turning something because what seemed perfect yesterday, isn’t perfect anymore today. Hours of work turn into days, days turn into weeks. And when people are better than me, what does that make me? Not as long as there are still people who are better. Unattainable standards, because perfect isn’t good enough. If i’d known what those thoughts would grow to be after tens of years, i would’ve settled for good enough.īecause being the best, means being perfect. If i become the best, i thought, i’ll have no worries. And i started working even harder, to get even more praise. It made me feel good, like my hard work paid off. I’ve always liked to be praised, ever since i was little. And god forbid anyone would see that undesirable side. There’s some kind of twisted determination inside of me that refuses to succumb to what i’m becoming. It’s not the same and it never will be again. It’s funny how i went from just being me, to completely the opposite being lost and ruined by anxiety and self hatred, to trying desperately to be myself again. How i started to become a bad replica of myself. When did it go wrong, exactly? I have no clue.ĭoes it really matter though, when it went wrong? Would it help me fix things if i could pinpoint when exactly i started feeling this way? What the key moment was that changed my life in a not particularly good way? Was there even a key moment? Maybe i just started crumbling gradually. I know it’s the real me because that’s what i was like as a child, before everything started going downhill, before everything started to go wrong. Sometimes there are still glimpses of the real me, on good days, though they’re very rare. In time it seems like that’s all what defines me. Who am i kidding, not days, but for as long as i can remember. That thought seems to be crowding my mind a lot these days. How well do i know myself? Too well? Not enough?
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