I'm going to tell you a story about myself, or at least, I am going to try. This is a story that I've been unknowingly writing for the past 25 years, for the past 9,244 days.
The story begins now, in a room that could disguise itself as the living room of a model home. I'm sitting in a room that's empty of other people; but there are a lot of chairs, 26 to be exact, a sofa, and some more couch-like chairs. I could have a lot of friends over to my theoretical model home.
I don't know if I could even name 26 people that I'd want to be around right now. More than half of them would decline the invitation anyway. The others wouldn't come to my party, or we'd have a sad-looking get together with Lays Original chips and French Onion dip, the kind that comes in a jar, and lots of chairs.
The devil on my shoulder, my insecurity, tells me that I wouldn't be a good host anyway.
You can barely hold a conversation. What would you even talk about with all two people that show up to your dumb pity party? You'd just twiddle your thumbs and stare at your shoes. You have such shitty taste in high-calorie snack foods. French onion dip and Lays chips? Really?
Before you ask, I'm used to this kind of beratement. It's an everyday thing. My insecurity visits me every day without fail. I do my best to block her out. She's a side character in my story. Not big enough to have a leading role, but still ever present. When things get messy, sometimes I'll confront her.
Sometimes.
But I'm distracted, so I forget about confronting her. My quiet model house living room has been infiltrated by people that I didn't invite. I should've been prepared for this; my living room is a public space.
This is where I come to write.
This is where I struggle with the voice inside my head that feeds off of the blank page. The more white that there is on the page, the louder the voice is. Don't even start to write. It says, Your writing doesn't matter. Nothing that you do right now matters.
The infiltrators left the front door open, and the autumn wind is blowing in cold air.
I'm cold, I should leave, I think, and get a sweatshirt. I should get away from the infiltrators, who I did not invite to my party.
But I don't move. I stay seated, shivering. I put on my headphones and listen to the same song over and over again, hoping to fall into some kind of creative trance.
Don't let this idea float away, I think. Don't let it escape.
Insecurity is back. What the fuck are you talking about? What are you even writing about?
I'm trying to tell them. I'm trying to write my life story. But you keep interrupting, I tell Insecurity. I can't concentrate very well with you always screaming in my ear. Now please, settle down.
My mom calls, the phone rings and I hit decline. I'm working.
Insecurity is screaming louder now. NO. STOP IT. STOP WRITING. YOUR IDEAS ARE TRASH AND NO ONE CARES. STOP. NOW.
The moment begins to feel very meta because I can hear the desperation in her voice; my insecurity is becoming insecure. One of the only ways to quiet my insecurity is to fill the white space. The less blank the page is, the quieter her voice gets.
So I continue to write, to spite my insecurity, that crazy fucking bitch.
She is a part of me. I wouldn't be who I am without her. She's taught me a lot about myself. She's been with me since my sense of self first formed, hiding around the corner, waiting for the perfect time to try and take over my entire being.
