Hi guys! I'm an addict - by Eyitoluwase Soyinka

I can't do this.I really can't.I turn and see Marty encouraging me to speak.How can I share my issues with these people I’m only just meeting? You only speak to family about this.And even my family,I didn't tell, they would overwhelm an already whelmed me.I have to do this though, My therapist agreed that this was my only cure, and by therapist, I mean that faithful app ChatGPT. It’s strange that the web knows all about me.Closing my eyes, I begin.I beg you to listen and not judge.Believe me, I’ve done enough of that to myself.So please help me do what I can’t do for myself.I say my name. And they all chorus, “Hi.”" I struggle with self-worth.I mean my mind’s worth, especially my writing worth.I think it’s truly trash.The praise feels like sand in my mouth or the last vegetable soup I cooked… I was fasting, so I couldn’t taste the salt overdose"They all chuckle slightly " I think I’m a thief.Even though others say otherwise.It started recently, when the praise came in, and even my parents would call to congratulate me, saying, “I’m so proud of you.” Others would chip in, “It runs in our blood.”But inside, I knew.I just knew…who I truly was.It’s not the fear of people not liking my work that cripples me. That isn’t what makes me spend days creating one insight…it’s them reading it and going, “I bet she’s never experienced this before.”So the day my sister forgets to say, “This was such an amazing read,” I know.She’s realized how not authentic it is.Someone said something to me recently… I almost collapsed from how it sounded.They went, “It’s like reading different pieces with the same play on words and recurring ideas.” And don’t feel sorry for me yet, because I appreciated the feedback.That’s not what hurt me.It was how easily my mind agreed with them.How I had no defense for myself.It was like my pen stared at me and said, “You’re not a writer. Stop trying to be.”My thoughts were tired of pretending they believed in me.They accused me of being subpar , of being an impersonator <img src="/media/inline_insight_image/2a31bf2dab75358ea932275d4d1c1fca.jpg"/>I sat on my bed and thought,Who could I speak with?No one, was the sad answer.Family would cheer me and tell me that I was good enough.Friends would scream, “Girl, do you know how much I adore your work?”So I did the next best thing…I wept.My therapist, though… very scholarly, ruthless mentor guy—I hope he’s a guy—said to me,“The cure for what you’re feeling is simple.”“You’re an addict”—that word! I truly failed to see the relevance. I don’t like the bottle.Still, I took his advice literally and decided to attend this… " so hi, guys. I’m an addict meeting." An addict to putting myself down,Because I’m my worst critic.I look up and stare at Marty, still looking at me expectantly.I pick up my bag and walk out.I’m not a writer.What am I doing here?I hate writing.I’m done.

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