I type out the first few lines of my first CFP, and there they are -- my demons are perched, ready to pounce with plenty of ammo to bury me with. They attack every thought I print to the screen. “Rails is an opinionated framework.” How the fuck would you know? “Our exploratory approach has been a key part of the group’s success ...” Who the fuck cares? And when they grow tired of picking at particular phrases I pen, they fall back on their favorite refrain ... Who the fuck do you think you are?
They haven’t been this loud in awhile.
I forgot how exhausting they were. Impostor syndrome at its worst. Or its best? Because they’ve got me where they want me -- slumped over, stupid heart pounding, fucking nerves racing, anxiety shooting through the goddamn roof. But I’m typing. And I’m typing. And I struggle to see the screen through frustrated tears. But I do. And I can. And I won’t let them beat me. And I can’t let them beat me. And they won’t fucking beat me.
Because it’s not about the fucking proposal. It’s about fucking proposing.
I'm terrified, and I’m not sure why. I don’t really think I’m worth listening to, not right now anyway. But if I don’t act like I am, then I never will be. Fake it till you make it, right?
And now I’m here -- that place where I self-destruct in my own insecurities unless I focus everything I have on her -- that woman I want to be. Because she’s bold. And she’s loud. And she never had fucks to give. And I want to be her so badly. And that starts with this.
Which makes this all quite amusing. Because we’ve been here before. And we know how this ends. You try to talk me out of my dreams. I dream on.
And yes, sweet demons, you are frustrating, and distracting, and burdensome. You will always be with me, attempting to bury me under the weight of my worst thoughts. And here you go again, pounding away at me. My eyes are red. My hands are shaking. But alas, you’ll have to hold on a moment -- it’s nearly midnight, and this proposal won’t submit itself.
*click*
I’m sorry, what were you saying?