My personal perfectionism has led me to more than questionable decisions, accompanied by countless night shifts, writing, rephrasing and lay outing my own words. Until I realized, those where not my words.

Dear Reader, no matter how many times I started a new sentence in my mother language, I couldn’t help but switch back into english and rephrase it all over again. This journal is about my fear of missing out. This specific fear of missing out mistakes… 

I know, I am not perfect. Nobody is and I don’t want to be perfect. It’s way too much effort and incredibly vain. Even thou, my personal perfectionism has led me to more than questionable decisions, accompanied by countless night shifts, writing, rephrasing and layouting my own words. Until I realized, those where not my words. It has been my words, going back in time and be the editor of flair magazine again and also me, not being female enough for the job at a woman’s magazine. I rewrote them so often, I din’t even knew myself anymore, what I was actually writing about. Cliches or my injured ego, after the effort I had put in and suggesting the changes, which were following just a few months after I left? 

The Fear Of Missing Out: Mistakes

My fears of missing out opportunities is bottomless, especially when it comes to my job. The words in my head are flowing in endless cycles. Sometimes I can’t stop them and have to spill them all out. In the past, I hadn’t much luck with the choice of my language. Hopelessly lost in what I wanted to say, I ended up saying the expected, but not what I was meaning to say. Four years later and various therapies couldn’t change that. The fear of not being pleasant enough remains, no matter how hard I tried to fit in anywhere. My dog must feel this way about his box. 

You are not good enough…

There’s always this tiny, annoying voice in my head: „You are not good enough. Try harder. We want to see you suffer, for your dreams.“ But it’s not the glitter or the fame and glory, nor the hype with a fast goodbye, I’m aiming for. I want to write and express myself, maybe even do it for those, who remain silent. Yet, again the social media bubble vs. myself as a serious journalist and artist. The surface has to be polished, perfect and static, otherwise we would give up control and will, forced onto it. Pictures inspired me to dig deeper, cultivate my aesthetics and find my signature style, make it easier every day.

Tell me what you want, what you really, really want…

But not only the way I dress, also the way I do, or don’t do things, even how I write today. All those small details, enlarging my view into a universe of the arts, but also leaving me dissatisfied. It makes me wonder, where is the line between commerce and art? Asking myself, at which point, is it not authentic anymore? It’s definitely not commercial at this point and considering my future, I will start joggling jobs again, to have at least a few precious minutes every evening, reflecting and rephrasing, what had happened during the day. The perfect breakfast after a log shift at the cafe or the spontaneous hook-up and the champagne afterwards? How can I not write and continue collecting those precious moments or share them? 

Maybe I’m a dreamer rather than a visionnaire, missing out the essentials in life and being stoned at all time. Somehow, it was one of the happiest days in my life—in a long period—and I remember myself waking up with a smile this particular morning, knowing it would be a great one. The urge for social acceptance is dragging me back on the dark side again and as usual in need of money, this question remains: which kind of writer do I want to be? Do I really wanna step back and write about all that glamour, or do I really care about what’s going on in our society?

The thoughts about waste and other dispensable consumer goods, produced for an exclusive group of people, changing their minds every week in 52 seasons, left me tired of trying. Probably a mistake and against the order, earning a living as writer or be decent enough to work for an established publication. Maybe.

Don’t do this, don’t do that…

I can’t remember a day in my life without fear, except the last few weeks. May it had been my parents or teachers, when I was a teenager. Or my grandmothers cousin, a priest. Priests are scary anyway. Nowadays I only fear not being polite or conscious enough, whenever I’m starting a conversation or new article. Since I grew older—I’ve already discovered my first gray hair—I tend to take things less seriously, when it comes to vanity. I simply move on and feel unrealistically realistic, while expecting nothing more than a series of wonders. Have we forgotten, how that has mostly worked out in our childhoods?

Guess I’m just focussing on what’s important, my loved ones or the progress of David’s training. The last week has shown me, even if your data breaks, there’s always hope for recovering. The mistakes I’ve made, showed me that wonders are everywhere. We just have to be open for failures in the first place. If there’s no risk, there’s no joy in it. △