My “perfectionism” is debilitating, and it’s getting worse. There’s little to keep me from dwelling over every-fucking-little thing to the point it takes me exponentially more time to accomplish anything (everything). When I do, whatever-it-is is damn near perfect, but worth little. There was no reason for perfection because it wasn’t worth anything to begin with. A perfect nothing is still nothing.
I used to be able to work at a reasonable pace, even rushing through tasks that were trivial, mostly because I had other things to occupy my mind. I still do, but it’s sad stuff, confusing stuff that I’d prefer not to think about at all (we have no resolution at the moment — this isn’t the “new normal” for which I hoped). I had him to occupy my time, and though it was only on the weekends (if we were lucky), it was so fucking good for me to stop, breathe, and give my cluttered brain a rest.
I’m not perfect, and though that tendency has always been with me, for the past few years, I got a break every now and then.
Lately, I’ve had no break from myself (besides the nagging, frivolous imperfections that occupy my head), and there’s nothing on the horizon I’m looking forward as much as I looked forward to being with him.
I miss having something — someone — to look forward to.