Since I was young perfectionism is something I struggle with. I latch on to preconceptions of an ideal outcome and if reality doesn't match I consider it a loss; a miss-step on my part and punish myself by repeating the incident over and over in my head.

This neurotic idealism paired with an overly sensitive disposition smolders for long periods of time, collecting kindling with each disappointment. I stir the logs and stoke the fire, poking at the coals to remember each and every episode—how they originally made me feel, yet hotter now. Overwhelmingly hot.

An explosion happens, WHAM!!! A complete release of normality, self-control, and utter surrender to the messiness of life.

This part is the mess—a chaotic release and acceptance of life in its brilliant imperfection. At this point there is nothing left to do except be. It's an astounding creative, cathartic process. I have given up that radiant fire of self-doubt and find myself at peace sitting in the ashes.