Something I wrote at some forgotten occasion and time about my sense of inadequacies:
Since childhood my imagination has been overstretched,
dragged down by the weighted melancholy of ten thousand wretched little sins
and darkened by the graves of a multitude of irreparable failures.
No grand failings, only contemptible ones.
Sins can be forgiven, but what remedy can undo failure?
Failure of the poorly finished, the unfinished, the misguided, the foolish;
Failure of too much or too little insight, of too great or too little effort;
each failure leaving its residue of guilt clinging to my soul
long after the deed itself had slipped from memory,
while others refuse to be forgotten,
jabbing my conscience with fairy tale endings to stories now beyond recovery.
Some people stumble grandly and suddenly, reaping admiration and sympathy.
But my dreams have died quietly by slow betrayal,
the bright morning of anticipation shriveled by delay to the wilting burden of duty,
and duty sinking into the shame of good done too late or left undone.
Even good begins to stink if it lies too long unfinished.
Dream upon dream turned moldy and abandoned,
stacked one on another like corpses on a lost battlefield,
grand hopes that kept at bay my sense of worthlessness,
finally unmasked by time’s ruthlessness.
Janathan Grace Reflections 
one thing that my own life with depression has taught me is that everything I think I “see” and “experience” and “know” about life, myself, and everything is completely an appearance. What I believe one moment to be absolutely true will the next moment appear absolutely false and the only difference as far as I can tell is some imperceptible shifting of some hormone or another deep in my brain, some unconscious switching of neurons from one setting to another – possibly in response to something I ate or a change in the barometric pressure. Years ago I began to watch myself again and again as one moment I was looking at my life as full of love and joy and fulfillment and the next I saw only my failure, my loss, abandonment, aloneness and uselessness. Literally from one moment to the next. After many years of seeing this, the sadness still feels just as real. And the things the sadness says to me seem just as real. But there is an awareness in my mind (not in my feelings) that reminds me that this is just a shifting part of my journey – something I’m passing through, not something I am – it is none of it actually true – it’s only true that I feel this way, the things the sadness says are not true. They only have the appearance of truth because of the perspective, the angle from which I am looking at that moment.loveMardi