He said: ‘it’s all in your head,’
and I said ‘so is everything,’
but he didn’t get it.
– Virginia Woolf
I’ve never been able to settle for anything less than perfection. I hold everyone and everything to these standards, but no one more so than myself. I think that I’ve created something that’s good, something that I can be proud of, when that little voice in my head whispers, what if it’s not good enough, what if it could be better? Because if it could be better, it’s not the best. And if it’s not the best, it’s not perfect. And if it’s not perfect, then what’s the point? Except that little voice? It’s not so little.
It takes over my every waking thought, often slipping into my dreams, until it’s all I can think about. It must be perfect. It must be right. Nothing else is acceptable. It continues to berate me, constantly picking away, until it’s all I can do just to stand against the pressure.
Sometimes it feels like there’s more than one person in my head – and I’m not talking about the fun, Inside Out emotions – I’m talking about being completely insane. Conversations with myself, constantly second guessing every action, every thought, every word, every movement, until I don’t even remember what normal feels like anymore.
Maybe I am insane.