Double-Post of Insomnia

It's going on two a.m. and I meant to sleep but I'm afraidafraidafraid, of nothing and of everything. It is just panic that is creeping up my throat and clogging my brain and surging over me, and those things go away after a while, I know.
But no matter how often I tell myself this, it doesn't help.

And my head is like something filled with hot, damp cotton candy, it's all mushy and soft inside and in danger of floating or possibly melting away.
shit shit shit. I don't want to be scared liked this, it feels like my skin is on fire and my guts are inside out.

I'd like to see my therapist right about now, because she's nice and calm and rational, and has a friendly smile. But the next appointment is still a few days away, I know she's a busybusybusy woman.

She tells me I should monitor my fear in a situation like this, make a list where I write down in certain intervals the perceived level of my anxiety on a scale from 1 to 100; so that I have something tangible, a concrete manifestation of my inner chaos in the outside world, something real and unscarily objective that gives me some control.
Also so that I can track how it develops, so that I can be relieved when the panic finally abates.

I thought that was a fine idea, only I have no scale - it's always 100 to me.
100 100 100, I could write this on paper all night long, it's coming in waves and it isn't leaving.

Do you know that feeling where you thought you could do something, but find out you really can't?
You can't, simply can't, still can't, physically can't? I'm not referring to eating or starving, I just mean - something you can't face, you thought you could but you realize you can't and it's crushing, it makes you sweat with fear of how much you will disappoint yourself and others.
And you feel that others will never understand, how could they even suspect the width and depth and height of this nightmare?

I listen to the cars passing outside and try to pretend it's the ocean - but that's cheap, really, a cheap thing to pretend.

I'm sorry for rambling, I just need to try and get rid of the mushy-cotton-candy-feeling, the hot-hot-panic-feeling, and I think rambling on here might be helping. It's perhaps an 80 now. I'm not sure.

Ineffectual Musings

Perfection... I've always been obsessed with that little world, and I know I am far far from alone in that.

It is often curious to me why human beings work the way we do, and why that little word holds so much power over us.

How it is that the concept of perfection can motivate us so much, elevate us, crush us, excite us.

How the thought, that every little part, every centimeter of our bodies, minds, even souls could be perfect, seems so liberating and promising, and daunting all at once.

Still, it is all that sustains me often.

My life is far from perfect right now.
My flat isn't perfect - it's a bloody mess.
My mind isn't perfect - it is equally messed up.
My "career prospects" aren't perfect - I am letting it all go to hell, and I'm not even sure I have chosen the right direction with what I'm doing at uni.
My "love life" isn't perfect - I am still painfully in love with a boy who doesn't even deserve it, King of Cowards that he is.

And finally, my body isn't perfect - it is farther from perfection than it ever was.

I dare not even step on the scales at this moment, but I reckon (and I am an unfortunately gifted soothsayer in that regard) it might be as high as 60kg, 132 lbs, a BMI of a square and scary 20 (defined, of course, as perfectly "normal and healthy for your age". Blech. Whoever comes up with these definitions obviously hasn't seen the state of my thighs. Or my behind for that matter.).

60kg would be the absolute highest I have weighed since the day I was born, and I swear I'm going to die if it goes any higher than this right now.
I need to regain control but I am struggling, pitifully, to rediscover any fragment of my former strength, any semblance of my old composure.

And yet, amidst all this chaos, I hope and dream of a state where perfection can be attained.
No matter how unrealistic it may seem - if I didn't cling to the abstract hope that perfection was possible, I would have thrown in the towel on life long ago.

It is all that keeps me from giving up when submerged in the darkest, dankest recesses of my personal Void... the possibility of perfection.

PS: re: first picture - that sunrise, on that day, was perfection to me.
Nothing quite like watching the sun rise from aboard a boat...

The girl below, of course, displays a different form of perfection. And yet she seems so forlorn - the atmosphere in that image is pretty much how I'm feeling right now, so I like it.