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53
IMPOSTOR SYNDROME:- GENESIS
<p><br></p><p>A year ago, I picked up my pen again, to weave words so that they come to life. Something strange happened, I heard something. Something quiet, just a feeling.</p><p><br></p><p>I knew what feeling it was. It was a familiar one, it spoke to me whenever I was called up by the teacher, to solve a mathematical equation for the class. I'd always hated maths. So that feeling was my friend.</p><p><br></p><p>It was Doubt. A familiar pest.</p><p><br></p><p>But this was different, I was writing. Why was my old friend whispering in my ears, about how my work wouldn't be good enough?</p><p><br></p><p>It was words! Not equations, words! </p><p>I was good at words!</p><p><br></p><p>“Are you?” I heard, but I shoved it aside.</p><p><br></p><p>Too late. The seed was already planted.</p><p>My friend, Doubt, speaks to me. A soft warning, that my work wouldn't be good enough. It speaks to me, and as always, I listened.</p><p><br></p><p>The words became louder, everytime I wrote, till it became a scream. Until rumpled pages from my notepad lay scattered all about me. Until I wrote less and less.</p><p><br></p><p>Until I didn't write at all.</p><p><br></p><p>I suffered in my head, at everything I did. </p><p>My drawings suffered, my thinking suffered, my gift suffered. </p><p>My old friend, Doubt introduced me to his friend, the killer, Fear.</p><p><br></p><p><br></p><p>Fear spared no expense in making itself comfortable within me. Everytime I picked up a pen, fear surfaced.</p><p>I was certain I was writing something so bad it was laughable.</p><p><br></p><p>I grew even more miserable when I read people's writings. I could do that!</p><p>I could write just like that! </p><p>But, I lost the ability to weave words because of my friend, Doubt.</p><p><br></p><p>I got fed up with myself. I was wallowing in self pity, mourning a skill I still possessed. I picked up a pen, and started writing, something, anything.</p><p>Thinking back now, I was really writing jargon.</p><p><br></p><p>A word became a sentence that evolved into verses, stanzas and then poetries.</p><p>Doubt came back, whispering harshly,</p><p>“What are you doing? They make no sense!” </p><p><br></p><p>I stopped writing, and took a long look at the pages…</p><p>It was right. They truly made no sense.</p><p>Then I dropped my pen.</p><p>I saw reason with my old friend again.</p><p><br></p><p>Doubt won again.</p><p><br></p><p>~to be continued~</p>
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