Fears of Failure

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"Man is condemned to be free; because once thrown into the world, he is responsible for everything he does"
- Jean-Paul Sartre

  It certainly cannot be said that my anxiety is rational. Often, I find that the less I have to worry about, the more prevalent it becomes. It has plagued me more than usual in the last few weeks. For the first time in a while, I vomited after brushing my teeth. While you're doing it, you feel as if your throat is being pulled apart, but when the bile is gone, there is an odd sensation of relief.

        A sort of euphoric feeling which comes from the bees in my chest making their exodus and their bitter yellow honey falling into the toilet bowl. But they're never away very long. They'll be back when I eat just a bite too much of a delicious supper, or at night buzzing away in my head and tossing my body around the mattress, or in the morning ready to make their escape (though they leave a few on guard duty to ensure that I don't return to my slumber).

        I increasingly find myself using sleep as a means of retreat. Not just from my anxiety, but my responsibilities, my angst, my fear. Less than a year ago I could not even conceive of afternoon naps, yet now I find myself collapsing into them and waking to find my sheets covered in sweat and my book on the floor with my page lost.

        Naps do not provide me with pleasure. Not any kind that I value anyway. When I spend my afternoons with closed eyes and drooling lips, I am reminded when I awaken of the weakness which oppresses me, that same weakness which leaves me spending days doing nothing but playing videogames and that same one which leaves me constantly performing below my own expectations. Oh, the things I could do if I only had the energy! I could climb mountains, slay beasts, be the truest individual I could ever dream to be! Yet here I lay on this dreadfully comfortable couch, losing myself in my own ramblings rather than reading the works of Kant, Hegel, Kierkegaard, Heidegger.

        It is a fault of mine that I am not yet qualified to do such things because I have spent too many hours of the day on this couch. The whims of the flesh supersede the anguish of the mind. Indeed, I may study the plight of an individual all I want, I may define what makes him free and I may find what is of value in his life. Yet all is meaningless if I cannot be that person. I cannot lambast the monotony of the crowd while engaging in it myself.

       Indeed, this is the source of my anxiety. Failing to be what I wish to be. What I need to be. I am a hypocrite. I am not unique in this regard. I am blind to many things which I hope to one day see. But if I cannot succeed in dispelling these things, if I am to remain the hypocrite that I am or become an even greater one, then it is not the world's fault. It is no one else's fault either. It is my own for not working hard enough, not adhering to those simple principles which I set out for myself. I am responsible for my own failure.