I have a horrible case of inferiority.
I don’t believe anything I do is amazing. I’m always striving to be better, because I can be better, I will be better. How can I celebrate when there’s so many people out there who have accomplished so much more than me?
I don’t believe that I’m beautiful. I doubt sincere feelings, believing that I’m trying to make a show of something. Am I only trying to be nice because I want others to perceive me that way? Who am I truly? I don’t believe that anything I do is out of pure selflessness, and as soon as I find my motivation, I perceive my soul as ugly, worthless.
I don’t believe that anyone could love me. I am not deserving of anything as pure as that, as beautiful or as rich. My imperfections are not capable of being loved by anyone, not even by myself. The more secrets I hide away, the more terrible they become in my crowded corner, never seeing the daylight and absorbing more of the darkness that engulfs me. They become a reason for me not to put myself out there, a reason to not say yes, a reason to not keep on trying.
Maybe this is why I can never hold onto anything good that I’ve got, because no matter how much it belongs to you, it’s always liable to slip away if you don’t grasp on tight. I would let go, assuring myself that I wasn’t good enough, or that the next person whom it belonged to was more deserving, better than me. But if I had held on, I swear I would’ve taken three times as much care of it as the next person has.
And then I tell myself, or he whispers in my ear—
Maybe I am amazing.
Maybe I am beautiful.
Maybe I am deserving.
And a small strand of hope runs through me just before the next waves of inferiority crash in.