All I do all day is try my best.
I try my best to make it look as though I can totally handle anything being thrown my way. I try my best to be my best self. I try my best.
My best is not good enough.
Today my best intentions were useless. Today I failed. Today I left work with images of a noose around my neck; of a blade cutting my arm; of a world without me in it. And my anxiety and self-loathing fueled thoughts validated these. And as I sit and write this, I am doing all I can not to make any of these reality.
The logical part of my brain understands that sometimes things just don’t go right. But the illogical part says that everything is my fault and I don’t deserve to have the things I have. It also says that I deserve to wear the scars of my faults. That I ought to hurt myself to validate the hurt in my head. Because it isn’t validated until it is visible to other people.
Luckily my logical brain is (just about) winning the argument. It would be stupid and useless to hurt myself. No good would come of it. I wouldn’t be able to do my job. I would let so many more people down in doing that than in any of my other actions. It would look pathetic and it would achieve nothing. It would do nothing to improve my faults. It wouldn’t make it better.
But what can make it better?
Nothing I do is ever good enough. Or, if it is, it is not acknowledged. It is so easy to pick faults in others, but I think it is so much easier to pick faults in yourself. For every one thing other people think I can’t do right, I’m fairly sure I can list at least another 10 things.
I won’t list them, it would begin to get too personal (“paha, as if it isn’t already,” says the voice in my head).
I wish I felt safe. I wish I felt like I was good enough. I wish I was better at my job. I wish I was kinder to myself. I wish things would get better. It’s a constant 2 steps forward and 3 steps back.
I wish I could feel happy again.