I can’t remember exactly when, but somewhere along the line, I created unrealistic expectations for myself.

Most of the time I somehow managed to meet them but I wouldn’t congratulate myself for something that was expected.

No one pushed these expectations on me. No one but myself, but if I didn’t meet them I’d feel immense disappointment. 

Often I’d try to find a way to hide it. I became so good at hiding that it was almost as if I were able to let go. 

However deep down, I hadn’t. I let it stay there without mourning so I couldn’t let go. 

This was usually never an issue until I overflowed with the stress of it all. 

Eventually, the people around me had taken notice. They’d ask me why I put myself through it but I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t know why. I just couldn’t stop.

It was as if I didn’t complete something flawlessly, I’d fall apart. My heart would feel heavy with guilt. There would be pressure in the back of my throat and it’d become difficult to speak. 

Some would tell me that it was a gift. I was willing to do whatever it took and I worked hard for the best results. 

Maybe that was true but it had felt like a curse and I had to come to terms with the plain fact that I would never truly be satisfied with myself.