Part 2: Vertigo

These days when I lay awake, I am often overcome with a severe feeling of vertigo. No, not because my bed is perched upon a six-foot loft. Rather, I feel as if I am perched upon twenty-two years of living that might actually be of little substance whatsoever. It is a dizzying, sickening sensation to look back at a lifetime of eager, brimming passion and great potential and suddenly feel that there is nothing solid to grasp onto.

Have I ascended to this point on nothing but a cloud of illusions, or have I indeed been climbing upon the earth with my hands and my feet, exerting genuine effort and achieving true accomplishments? Often, the answer is not clear to me.

Ask anyone very close to me and they will let you know how I feel about myself at interval. I feel as if I squeak past my requirements with only the bare minimum. I rarely think my effort warrants the rewards I achieve. I am convinced that I yield results that are but a fraction of my real potential.

I feel as though I should be consistently blasting out home runs, but I am typically off the mark. I turn good pitches to hit into pop ups and ground outs, but occasionally I will find a gap or the wind will blow one out for me. And why? I am a chronic time waster. I am typically late. I struggle with focus. My discipline fluctuates wildly. I’m a big talker. I’m a poser.

Did I mention I am easily discouraged?

With every squandered opportunity, every disappointing performance, every shameful decision I make, I feel my conviction in my uniqueness is dulling. It becomes increasingly difficult as I grow older to reject the thought that, indeed, I once was special, but I have since ruined my chances to make an extraordinary life for myself. There is nothing more terribly convincing than watching your own actions – or inaction – destroy your own dreams.