[3:13:37 PM] Fiona Moore: Today the theme seemed to be ways I wanna be perfect but feel that I am doomed to failure
[3:18:31 PM] Fiona Moore: \o/
[3:19:46 PM] Fiona Moore: Scrap wanna. Need to ve perfect. Feeel compelled :/
it would be one thing if that simply applied to one area of life – say just work, or fitness, or organising my cd collection. But when it spans all those things and more, spills into controlling how you form, maintain, and freak out about all relationships, it starts to be a little bit of a problem.
When you breathe a sigh of relief after a breakup, not because you’re not frantically missing that person and their role in your life, but because that’s one role you don’t have to play and get right for awhile. That doesn’t place pressure on your every move, your every word.
There are so many other roles swirling around, begging to be perfected, friend, sister, daughter, playmate, employee, flatmate, colleague, speechie.
No wonder I feel paralysed.
Maybe it would help if I just knew who Fiona was first.
I talk about the meltdown I had Sunday morning when she was gone when I woke up.
Immediately I panic, running through the evening’s events. Had I done something to piss her off? Did I hit on her inappropriately after our conversation about not doing that? Did I make some snarky comment after a couple of shared bottles of wine that one regrets come morning? What did I doooooooo?
I start crying and ringing her mobile, and land line, desperate for a response.
No answer, messages left. Texts and pms sent.
I retreat into my panic. Frozen.
Replaying the evening. No I did noting wrong, but then why did I feel so fearful? So desperate?
Why was I retreating into myself, trying to shut off the world, while trying to stay a part of it.
Just enough to regret, not to be noticeably more than before.
I get a message back.
She’d gone home to sleep. Of course. So sensible a response.
Missing xanax, I take my missed seroquel from the night before, and some panadol for good measure.