As long as I can remember, I dreamt of achieving big things. As a kid, I wanted to become a race pilot and beat all records, or the first astronaut to visit different planets. One Christmas, I got a telescope and I spent my nights looking at the moon and stars, knowing the names of all the visible constellations. Another year, I received a microscope and spent all winter examining whatever I could find. I even let food rot, just because I wanted to examine the fungus.
I’m a perfectionist. That means I’m terrified of being anything less than perfect. Every mistake, no matter how small, and every little imperfection, no matter how irrelevant, all drag my self-confidence down. I’m a perfectionist. That means that even though I’m living a successful life, I see myself as a failure. When I look in the mirror, I see a mess. A hopeless case. Someone who’s lost. A failure. Even though I’m none of those things. But I’m not perfect, so I must be a failure.