It all came tumbling down. Everything that I had managed to surpress. Everything that I had finally smashed into that little, dark chamber in the back of my mind. Everything came crashing.
All because of one, stupid thing.
Not the entire world on my shoulders, but one thin, sharp needle pressing down on my heart. A pathetically weak hand that turned the knob and opened the door with hardly any effort at all. And that was it. Everything came flooding back to me and nearly knocked me off my feet. Every ounce of insecurity I’d had came back. The feeling of inadequacy made a bitter homecoming, ten times as strong as it has ever been. And anxiety, my old friend.
Oh, how I haven’t missed you.
I can’t afford to fuck this up. So why did I fuck it up? Why did I do so horribly one time? And most importantly, why should it matter? I try, with all my might, to close that chamber door. But it’s impossible. The thoughts are already too far away. Front and center. Why can’t I do anything right?
Will I never get to rest?
Will I never taste the fruit of my labor? I’m not sure I can take any more of this. I’m so tired. So incredibly tired. Of the pressure, the demands, the responsibility. I’m so tired of the expectations. I’m tired of feeling like nothing I do is enough.
Inadequate. My middle name.