My parents taught me that in order to succeed in life I have to work until I collapse; only then will I be at the place where I want to be. I have to runs even when my lungs are struggling to get air because beyond that pain is the glory. Do I not bear witness to the stories of glorious men who carved a name in history because they chose to work when the world was asleep. Success is not handed down but is grabbed through determination.
These ideals have been grounded and scooped into a pill that I was made to consume at the age of 13. Ever since, I remember working tirelessly to get what I want. To achieve so much so that my own voice started to haunt me.
“This is not good enough”
“You can do better”
So, I was sleeping less and working more. I was skipping meals and biting my nails. I chugged in coffee like water. I was the best at what I do and still felt like a failure. I believed that I had more potential. I wasn’t pushing my limits. I was successful and still unhappy. My unhappiness made me question, “If I’m doing everything right then why does sadness eat my heart out?”
Success came with milestones and I was good at achieving all of them. The rules were simple, they revolved around three “P’s”-persistence, patience and perseverance. I was so ahead, waiting, to cross the finish line. A robotic existence that approached life with logic and method.
Until, it cracked. I failed not at achieving a milestone but living my life. It wouldn’t have been bothersome if I looked at death as another milestone to achieve in the long list. I find myself at a crossroad, now, trying to comprehend the meaning in the fight that I have put up.