At War With Myself

In a way, it’s a relief. Now I know why I am where I am, in spite of my abilities, opportunities, support. Stuck in mediocrity even though I was given so much.

I found myself yet again trying to talk to him. As though decades of talking had made any difference. I can picture him in my mind, helpless under the onslaught of my words, my desperate pleas. Overwhelmed by the flood of emotional drama unleashed his way. Like a frozen computer, my hammering at his keyboard was doing nothing but worsening an existing crisis.

And I was caught in the storm myself, spiraling out of control, needing some response. Some comfort. Acknowledgement that he understood my grief. Words that would never come, that could never come.

It’s so tempting to need him to be a villain who had plotted to drag me down, but I know in my head now that the monster existed inside me. There was nothing else but my own compulsions to batter myself against impossibilities.

I’m almost afraid to start conjuring up pop psychology buzz words. Fear of success, imposter syndrome, self defeating. A deliberate need to sabotage any chance of achievement. The monster exists within me. And I have no one else to blame. Truly.