A realization that hit me after a good, long talk with a dear friend on Sunday.

My failure to document my life in this space was indicative of the demon, sinking its talons deeper within my skin, gnawing away what’s left of me. Paralysis. That’s what grips me every time I dared to dream of going out there to achieve some idea of perfection.

It’s getting so much worse now.

Imagine someone constantly breathing down your neck, tell you that your best is not enough. Whispering: You’ll never run as far or long. You’ll never be good at Capoeira. You’ll never be smart. You’ll never find love. You’ll never be happy. Except you can’t pack your bags and walk away from that someone because that someone is you. Even as I type this paragraph, I’m telling me that my punctuation are inappropriately used, the sentence structure is awkward, I’ve repeated the word “someone” twice in the same statement.

When this happens, it just sucks out all the energy/life force you had in you. Like one facing impending death, I see the grand plans, the glorious future perfect, the cheers of the crowd flash before my eyes. And then darkness clamps down on me. I can’t move.


Now that I’ve given a label to what could potentially be causing my downfall, I need to celebrate my progress. Recognition is the first step towards perfection living a happier life. I can’t even type simple words like that anymore because these words have become so tightly wrapped up with excessively high standards of definition it will utterly crush me if I attempt to work towards them. Because once I start, anywhere beneath perfection is hell. Inferno.

Sometime back I was talking to someone who was beating around the bush a lot. When I questioned him, he said that he fear that his candor will hurt me. Without much thought I replied, “No one can hurt me more than I hurt myself.”

WHOA. Where the fuck did that come from?

Then I began thinking. So much of my misery is self-inflicted. I know it. I ain’t no fool. But I’m at a loss over how to correct this. This thing which I have been doing to myself for years have been causing me great displeasure; I am only cognizant of it now – like the morphine wearing off. This pain hurts because it has been reinterpreted to a character flaw, a human failure.

Which is why I’m running – literally and metaphorically. Solace can be sought from alcohol, sleep, Tumblr etc. because they occupied my mind to prevent it from reminding me that I’m a failure. I may be an alcoholic somewhere down the road. Or fat.


That’s not OK. I don’t really know what to do anymore. It’s getting increasingly harder to push myself up. Every time I succeed, something trivial comes and knock me off the horse, before I get trampled by its hooves, stamped deeper into the Earth.

I’m beginning to understand the stigma employers have against mental illnesses in their workers. Have I not have the trait of perfectionism in me, I would have perished long ago. Lay in bed. Not turn up for work. Do a shit job. Implode the world.

I need to seek help but I know it’s going to be terribly hard to be 100% honest, without the mental beating myself up over the failures I am going to have to admit to committing.

I will seek help.


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