The Worst is Here and it's Me

My mom has told me time and time again that I'm a perfectionist.
She tells me that when I was little I was always fussy about my hair,
and the clothes she dressed me in.
I knew what I liked, and I had to look good.
She's told me that I was three when I first started complaining about my fat thighs and the dimples I called "the holes in my face".

I was in 6th grade when I took my first incomplete on a major class assignment.
7th when I started missing school for extended periods of time,
and 8th when I started therapy.

I was diagnosed bipolar in 9th grade,
hospitalized in 10th.
Went to Ecuador in 11th
and then India after finishing grade 12.

Today, I could not decide what to wear for the life of me.
I finally settled on something that I felt I looked decent in,
but was completely inappropriate for weather in January.

I have an essay due tomorrow and I haven't started it yet.
I don't want to write it.
I don't even want to try.

Let me go somewhere new and have an adventure instead.

I am such a failure. The worst kind of failure, because I won't even try.
It's pathetic. I'm pathetic.
It's all my fault.
It's not the beast's, he's not even real.
It's not my friends', family's, co-workers' or professors'.
It is mine.
I'm so lazy. I just don't care.
And I'm too much of a coward to just tell people the truth: I'm not perfect, I'm not even okay.
I'm a shitty excuse for a human being.

This is no beast, this is me. And I'm the worst.