I am feeling insecure. It’s not a pleasant feeling. I look at everything I’ve done and decide I hate it, it’s not good enough and not worthy. Then I think that if I make it better I’ll feel less insecure about it. That means a lot of change, sometimes quite random change. It’s like being on a constant quest for perfection, which we all know doesn’t exist, and it’s just so exhausting.
Take this blog for instance. I am entirely disassified with it. I hate the design. I want a picture up at the top, a picture that isn’t of me, but somehow represents what this blog is about. I feel I’m losing touch though and that I don’t actually have a clue what it’s about. And I have absolutely no idea who I am. I sit here writing in the dark, and I have no idea who will read it or why.
Other times I’ve decided to change the way I look: cut my hair and see if that feels like me, change my clothes; does that feel like me? Somehow I feel indefinable. I am many things, I am nothing, I am always nothing of any importance or value.
Someone looked into my head today and discovered things I never knew were there. They are not nice things. It is difficult to share this. This is part of my illness. People don’t want to know about mental illness. That makes me feel like people don’t want to know about me. What would you feel if you could look into my head? Pity? Bewilderment? If you looked in, through the fog you’d glimpse a figure, my figure, curled up like a foetus on the damp earth. Then you’d notice the scars and open wounds on my back and you’d see someone kick me violently with utmost force. Recoiling and confused, you realise that the perpertator is also me.
