The kids from middle school appear to have found more interesting things to do than to bully me on a daily basis.
A new kid in our class.
I will be nice to him, he’s new. He asks questions about the teachers and the classes.
Surprisingly, he takes an interest in my physical appearance.
I am informed I do not possess appropriately large breasts.
Nor does the rest of my body appeal to him, either.
In fact, he is of the opinion that no other male peer will care to engage in physical intimacy with me, ever.
Opinion which is supported by evidence, as I currently do not have a romantic partner.
I thank him for his deliberation and try to bury the memories of being sexually assaulted a year prior.
2011
My father is driving and I am in the passenger seat. It’s summer.
Isn’t this nice. For once, we are having a casual conversation.
Suddenly, I am reminded that I’m soon entering my final year of high school.
That what I choose to study afterward "will determine the rest of my life".
That it needs to be relevant, future-proof, and something I can be the best at.
Do I know what I wish to study?
Not yet.
Well, I have until the end of the summer to find out.
I think back to my conversation with him a few weeks ago. I was advised that, should I choose to pursue my desire to act, I should expect little support or reward as a result of this action.
Dad?
"I’ve decided to study Business Management."
2020
It’s January 1st.
I’ve barely slept. Even with these sleeping pills, I can’t seem to get more than 5 hours of non-interrupted sleep.
The first few weeks after a concussion, you sleep loads. Then, you could struggle to sleep for months.
I’ve learned to adapt. Sleep, headaches, fatigue, screens that are too bright.
Dropping all the proverbial balls I was juggling made me appreciate the little things.
Like brushing my teeth.
I’ve never liked brushing my teeth.
Who am I kidding? I’m not adapting to this, I’m forced to live it.
Whoam I if I don’t work and create things? What will my future look like if I can’t solve problems like I used to? How will I achieve deadlines if I can’t predict when I get brain fog?
Dad thinks I may suffer from anxiety and fear of failure.
Perfectionism is like a leech.
It glues its belly onto the voices you know all too well. The ones that told you:
"Do better!" "Make me proud!" "That’s ugly!"
So those voices stay with you. As the leech feeds off them, it becomes bigger.
But even as it grows, you don’t see it. It blends in.
The voices change pitch and frequency and they begin to sound more familiar.
They begin to sound like that thing you say in meetings,
"For our market share to grow, we must implement new systems that have superior agility and efficiency to our competitors."
We internalize other people’s struggle with self-worth and start to believe that we deserve what we get when it’s bad, and we don’t deserve what we get when it’s great.
We internalize other people’s success when we’re taught to compete for a living. As Julia Cameron says in The Artist’s Way,
“We don’t compare our student films to George Lucas’s student films. Instead, we compare them toStar Wars.” - Julia Cameron
Perfectionism halts the first step.
It discourages the jump from beginner to intermediate.
It interrupts the marathon with 100 meters to go.
Because some troubled kid sent his hate mail via Asshole Airwaves.
I struggle to finish things.
Stories, applications, piano sheets, social projects.
I conflate marginal progress with output. If I can’t perfect something in one go, I choose no go.
Sometimes.
Other times, I say, oh for Pete’s sake, just get it out.
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