By definition:
Atelophobia; the fear of not being good enough.

For me, it isn't so much a fear as it is a way of life. Hubby and I had a long conversation on a car ride last night about another opportunity granted to me. Gonna keep it a secret for now until something comes to fruition. He asked why I seemed hesitant instead of elated. Why I seemed shy and scared, actually. My perspective- while it is an amazing opportunity granted to me. It is out of the blue and seemingly "free". Nothing is every free. There is always a price be it immediate or over a long course of time... There is always a price.

He suggested that maybe I've finally earned it. That I've been through enough, worked hard enough, have gotten good enough that somehow I have finally earned this. I started to tear up behind my Blues Brother's sunglasses and shook my head. "But I'm not good enough... Never have been, probably never will be." That was all I could force out before the tears tumbled.

Productive of my childhood? Absolutely not! Residual mental trauma from the first marriage? Most definitely. I wasn't good enough for him- ever. I wasn't good enough for his parents. First marriages are impressionable beasts- you get a mindset hammered into you're being and it take years to fight like hell to get any semblance of normal back. Second marriage Hubby- is amazing. He's helped me grow my proverbial wings back and lets me flaunt them. He's built me back up from the angst riddled little clump of nothingness I was went he met me. All fluff- no substance. But my brain is still the same. It still clings to not being able to be whom I am. It's not as bad as it was, but it creeps out of the corners now and then. Usually in the form of "Are you mad at me?" "Did I do something wrong?" "Are we okay?" questions. Not because something may actually be wrong, but because my brain still views silence as my doing something wrong and my obsessive need to please those that I care about.

In high school- my English teacher admired my writings and I have written a few novels- but I'm just good with words. My mom is the amazing artist- I just screw around with doodles and paintings. There are so many more talented photographers that I know personally and admire from afar- I just happen to take a good picture once and a while. I'm not pretty. People tell me I am, but I don't see that in the mirror- I see this ordinary human being that isn't at all attractive.

Like I explained to Hubby yesterday as we zoomed up the highway- if I keep the mindset of never being good enough, then I'll never grow an ego. I'll never be too good. It's safer for me, it's comfortable for me to not see my talents. Then I'll never be hurt by rejection or criticism. It's a buffer I have put in place to protect myself from every being hurt again.

I am proud of my works- my art, my photography. I'm proud of what I do and I post it on social media platforms and my website more for me to look at and say "Damn... That's pretty good," Having people compliment it and give me great opportunities because of it feels strange and unnecessary. Like- really? Why is that doodle of a raven so good to you? Why do you like it? Or why in God's name would you want my paintings in an art show? Seriously? What the hell? I was sad and lonely and felt I should do something other then stare at the floor where Sienna's bed was so I started painting a picture... You like it?

I'm really actually pretty small. I put on a personae of being bigger then life, being the majestic unicorn with words dripping in sarcasm and likes to use curse words as vocabulary enhancers. In truth- I'm this small little creature that hides her hands in shirt sleeves too long. That wears clothing too big because I can't bring myself to knowing I'm actually losing weight. I sing out loud and dance when no one is looking and judging me. I like to hide and be little. Only a few people know this (right up until this point of course) and even fewer actually get to see it. I have to trust you to let you see me with my guard down (I can probably count on my hands how many have seen this and still have fingers left). People seeing me for whom I really I am scares me to death. I'm a mess. A chaotic, fragmented piece of wreckage that likes to pretend I have my shit together. I could earn an Oscar for how well I pretend to be normal.

Exactly how many of you, right now, are searching your contacts to find me a good psychiatrist?? I probably need one... :)


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