Confession

   Sometimes I get this feeling, like an itch that starts under the skin and goes deep into my chest. It’s this feeling that I’m not doing enough. That I should be more successful, that my second book should be out by now, that I should have more readers for my first, that I should be making money of some kind, that I should be better. And then it spreads to everything else, and I feel like my GPA should be higher, and my body should be thinner, and my house should be cleaner, and my outfits should be more put together, and I shouldn’t forget to move over the laundry or to do that assignment on time.

   Sometimes it feels like I can’t reel all that back in, and I’m never going to make it. All my shortcomings are exploded out of me in a wheel of paint around the room, and it’s a giant mess. But it’s kind of beautiful, in an frightening way, like an exhilaratingly tall precipice and the vista around it. I take a deep breath. I remember I’m only 2 and even though I’m not there yet, I’m on my way. I just have to keep moving.