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by Andre Agassi

After years of hearing my father rant at my flaws, one loss has caused me to take up his rant. I’ve internalized my father—his impatience, his perfectionism, his rage—until his voice doesn’t just feel like my own, it is my own. I no longer need my father to torture me. From this day on, I can do it all by myself.

Perfectionism is something I chose, and it’s ruining me, and I can choose something else.

I tell myself that you can’t be unhappy when you have money in the bank and own your own plane. But I can’t help it, I feel listless, hopeless, trapped in a life I didn’t choose, hounded by people I can’t see.

Feeling depressed after a loss is one thing, but feeling depressed about nothing, about life in general, is another thing altogether.