I can hear myself telling me to strive to be perfect, without even speaking it. Though, people say perfection doesn’t exist. It’s this almost constant voice at the back of my head, screaming for me to be better and to fit in. That voice says that nothing is good enough that I do. And once in a while, I’ll feel that pain in my chest when I wonder if I can ever do anything right, if I can ever satisfy my own self. The heaviest thing I carry is my expectations of myself, and it weighs down on my tiny shoulders like a two-hundred pound weight. Even if it’s invisible to the naked eye, it’s seemingly always there.

It’s hard to describe the scent of home. It’s just something you’re so used to, you don’t even know what it is anymore. Maybe it’s fresh tea mingled with the slight hint of cleaner and animal bedding. But with the loud sound of the 80’s pop music filling my ears, I had paid no attention to the smell. The living room was empty, save for me lounging on an old chair, laptop sitting in my lap. The words I had typed on the previously blank document had blurred in front of me. The dust particles on the screen of the computer, visible under the ray of natural light from the window behind me, were now my primary focus as I rethink everything I just wrote. Was this good enough? No, definitely not. Being my overly-judgemental self, I delete the paragraph and start over. It’s seemingly normal times like this, at home, when I have the time to judge myself the most.

For as long as I can remember, my mother had dressed in the same, familiar way: a long, plain sweater or t-shirt and a long skirt or leggings. Her brown hair was highlighted with rays of blonde, and would fall to her shoulders. When I picture her, I not only think of her physical appearance, but I think of her way of reasoning. My mother and I always thought differently about things. The only thing we really shared was our oversized noses. While I would protest about my work, my mother would do the exact opposite, and support whatever I would do. She persuades me to be accepting of my work, because I can always get better. So I would simply close my mouth and nod, because I never wanted to tell her, a friendly, optimistic woman, that what I did wasn’t good enough.

I say the phrase “it’s not good enough” quite a lot, now that I think about it. Maybe it’s just the mindset I’m stuck with. It’s that feeling looming over its victim that anyone would want to forget; that feeling that always strikes out with its non-existent claws and grips me when I make a simple mistake. I know I’m not the only one who experiences this. After all, I believe it’s a normal thing at one point in someone’s life where they constantly nag at themselves about how what they do simply isn’t up to standards. Do yourself a favor and ignore that nagging voice, because no matter what, there will always be someone out there who supports what you do.