I was supposed to be home by now. Instead, I changed my ticket and delayed my return home by two months. Even then, five months just isn’t enough time. It’s surprising how much I haven’t got around to doing. Last week, we finally went to Chile—that trip was supposed to happen in December, when we first got here! I’d like to make it down (further) south to explore Patagonia a little; I’m dying to visit Bolivia’s salt flats and Peru’s high-altitude Incan cities; and I still haven’t made it to Rio, although I think I’m glad I skipped Carnaval. I haven’t taken a tango lesson yet, and while I feel like my Spanish has improved a great deal, that’s sort of like saying my suntan has developed—that is, I’m now “slightly ecru-ish” instead of “ghostly white”.
But, to be quite blithe: whatever. I’ve felt this way my whole life—like I’m not achieving enough—and I’ll probably forever feel like this. No matter what I manage to achieve, I will always feel that I’m failing on some other front. As long as I can remember, I’ve always felt overwhelmed, and I’ve always been spurred by a fear of Failure. In the past, what this has meant is that I work like a demon at something, letting other things slide, until the whole thing manifests itself into a giant mental breakdown, and I disappear for two days until I recover from it all.
I’ve finally changed this behaviour. Instead of focusing on my failures, I’m trying to turn that energy into positive direction. In theory, if I focus my energies instead on a positive direction, at least I’m making efforts against the almighty Failure, no?