This week, I almost gave up.

Right in the middle of a writer’s high (that may or may not have been a little too much like mania to be entirely healthy), a nice big red button that had taken many years to fully develop burst out of an intimate conversation one afternoon and punched me right in the face.

It fucking well hurt!

But, it woke me up. The button was clearly labelled. There was no disguise or deception.

It tried to shimmer sideways and turn on its perception filters to throw me off. But, no. I see you now, you old pattern of sabotage. You will never be able to hide again.

I will write. Even though maybe everything I’m pouring my heart and soul into will come to nothing, which earns less than that. My worth is not determined by how much other people are willing to pay for it.

Not any more.

I will say my opinions right out loud, even though you may not agree with them. Maybe you will! The terrifying part is that I don’t know if you will or not. The part of my opinion I share has always been shaped that way. I have always sculpted it into an attractive form. My powers of seduction are considerable.

I will stick to my path, even though it veers off in a different direction to the one you deem proper. My effort is enough because I say so, not because you can see the point.

… It makes me smile when you do, though.

Big and toothy smiling that shows the discolouration of my capped front tooth. The one that I think ruins my smile, even though I’ve had decades to get used to it. Bet you didn’t smack yourself in the mouth with a cricket bat when you were seven.

Was it way back then that I choked off my voice? Clamped my lips closed to keep away the judgement?

This week, I didn’t give up. I thumped the hell out of that red button until it told the truth. Turns out, I installed it and made it bigger over the years.

Just me.


One thought on “Self-sabotage

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