I’m not enough. Ever am I not enough.

In my work I am not enough. With others I am

not enough. I am not beautiful enough. Not proportional

enough, not sexy enough. Not hygenic enough, not

smooth-skinned and white-toothed, not athletic enough,

not strong enough, never enough.

I am not nearly perfect enough. What misery.





It’s a stupid idea. Unrealistic. Outlandish.

The kind of thing you roll your eyes at.

But, then, I’m not accomplishing enough,

not making enough progress. Not building

good habits, not shoring up my deficiencies.





I’m not being true to myself, not following my

intuition. I’m not listening to my feelings, because I

always feel like I have to cry, and I just can’t handle that

right now. I’m acting according to a standard that exists

only in my head and not in the world. Somewhere within this, I hate myself.

I have nothing. Care is not coming, I told myself, not from

out there. It has to come from in here. But I can barely face

that which needs care.





I’m just a little girl and I feel like I’m not doing enough. Not

being enough.

I feel like I can’t be enough.

Everything I am and everything I do is harbor for criticism.

I am never enough.

There is no pain greater than this.



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