These past few weeks, insecurity has crept back in after a long holiday. The crippling kind of insecurity that stops me from doing anything. (Writing a blog post, having a conversation, laughing at myself, handling criticism.)
There is literally nothing I can do without raining a storm of unduly harsh criticism on myself. My insecurity has made itself comfortable in my chest, squeezing out all the hope and the air and leaving me heavy and slow. It's constant abuse from myself. (And insults from yourself are the worst ones because you can always see your own faults clearer than others.)
Of course we're all insecure, all the time, at least that's what I've been told. But this is cruel insecurity, more like self-loathing, and the worst thing is this: I thought I was over this.
I honestly thought I'd never have to endure this again. This constant fragility, the tears that are always far too close to the surface. This fear of going outside, because strangers looking at me is simply too much to bear. I'm eighteen for pity's sake, shouldn't the worst of this be over already?
And this time around, I don't know how long I can endure this for. Hindsight is 20/20, as they say, but really I never realised how lucky I was to live without this feeling.
(The worst thing about this is the apathy and the fear. The shaking hands and racing pulse and the please-don't-look-at-me feeling at the back of my head.
Almost as bad is the lack of empathy, my lost capability of listening to anyone because of being so endlessly stuck in my own pathetic misery. All I seem to be able to seek from people is reassurance of my own worth, which is ridiculous, because nobody can give me that. Not if I can't find it myself. I detest having to write about this again, to have to return to a topic I've gnawed bare. My apologies.)
