Would you believe that I managed to schedule two weeks worth of blogs (two!) before I sat down to write this, the post I know I need to write. Not because anyone needs to read it. You can if you want – y’all probably figured out that I’m kind of an attention-junkie a long time ago. But I don’t need to write it for that.
I need to write certain things because once they crawl into my brain, it’s the only way to get them out. Otherwise I don’t sleep. I don’t focus. I don’t go all in, do the thing, attack my list with gusto, or any of the things that I imagine some of my writerly friends think I do all day.
It’s mostly the not-sleeping, not-focusing part that bothers me the most.
How I feel about myself and my work, my dreams and my goals, are in direct conflict with what I say I want to do.
I went on a bit of a Twitter rant the other night about. Not a rant. More of a reminder. Because I know I’m not the only one (we never are).
1. Every day, whether it’s here or on my own blog, I wait for the inevitable. The tap on the shoulder from someone asking who I think I am
— Kayla Lords (@KaylaLords) March 20, 2017
Imposter syndrome is the technical definition, if you want to skip to the end of the Twitter rant, lol. And anyone who does anything, makes anything, says anything they feel is important experiences it at some point or another. Me? I go through cycles. It’s quite likely tied to my anxiety.
Nothing will slow me down more than a dash of anxiety mixed with imposter syndrome and a long list of goals sprinkled in. It’s almost a recipe for inertia, or focusing on the wrong things. My kitchen is never so organized as when I’m avoiding my own plans and dreams.
I jokingly told one friend I was trying to build a kinky empire. Who the hell do I think I am?
I seriously told my sweet friends from Eroticon who gushed over my work that I refuse to believe my own hype. Because I’m not who they think I am, she whispers to herself.
I don’t confide my plans often. They feel too audacious. Too bold. Too egotistical. Who the hell do I think I am?
It’s a question that runs through my mind quite a bit.
Social media becomes a landmine during these times. I become incapable of focusing on the funny tweets or the great links I find. Instead, I obsessively lurk on the profiles of people who I think are More Successful Than I Am.
What are they doing that I’m not? Why don’t I talk about those topics? Look at them being much more interesting than I am. Ugh, I suuuuuuuuck.
Yes, I know this makes me sound a little like an anxiety-riddled stalker. That’s probably a generous definition.
But I’m self-aware enough to realize that I don’t want to be like these Other People Who Do The Sex Things Better. I truly don’t. I want to reach the goals that keep me up at night, that I can practically feel in my hand, taste in my mouth, and see in front of me. Some weird inner voice, not much nicer than my anxiety-mean-girl voice (think more drill sergeant instead) but definitely much quieter, tells me to stop whining and get to work.
And so I do. With fucking gusto, y’all. I don’t want to stop. Don’t want to sleep. Don’t want to quit. For a while, until that voice is forgotten, and I start playing the comparison game again.
You want to know what’s really fucked about the whole thing?
A lot of us do this. In our way. Okay, so some people are probably a bit less obsessed than I am (most people are, in general). But if we’re out here making shit, writing shit, sharing shit, and doing shit, we are probably nervous about it, comparing ourselves to others, and wondering who the fuck we think we are. At least some of the time.
If you’re one of those rare, fortunate souls who can’t imagine what I’m talking about, good for you. I’ll silently hate you in my head, but I’m happy for you.
A soul sister of mine says that I worry so much because I care. Well, that’s fucking true. The idea of getting this whole advice/kink/sharing thing wrong is paralyzing. But it’s stopping me in my tracks, slowing down my progress, and filling me with doubt too.
And it sucks.
I don’t share all of this just to have a woe-is-me-this-sucks kind of moment, although it’s partly that. But because I know I’m not alone in this feeling, even if I forget sometimes and get wrapped up in my own worries, fears, and doubts. So I’ll say it for the person who doesn’t think they can or should or that anyone cares (by the way, I care, so speak your own truth to this). I’ll say that this whole business of writing and creating and working for myself and trying new ideas and building something kind of different (there I go comparing again) is fucking scary.
And it doesn’t matter how different or similar your dreams and goals are to mine, if you’re making something (words on a screen, pictures in people’s heads, or just your own dreams come true), it’s okay and normal to feel scared or unworthy.
But no matter how we feel, the thing we shouldn’t let our fears do is stop us.
“No one does what you do quite like you.” ~Girl on the Net
You (I’m talking to both of us now) aren’t going to get it perfect the first time. Hell, whatever you do might never be perfect. You likely won’t even get it RIGHT the first time. But if you are true and genuine in everything you do, it will be yours which will make it wonderful. Not everyone will agree. Not everyone will love it. Not everyone matters.
Do it for that one person who always shows up and says, “Great job!” Do it for the one person who believes in you the most (even if that person isn’t you). Do it because this dream you’ve got is your life, and pursuing it is as necessary as breathing. Do it because you can’t do anything else.
Whatever this thing is you’re doing that makes you feel like a fucking imposter, keep going. Inch by inch, baby step by baby step. You won’t get there as fast as you want to or as fast as you think you should, but if you keep moving forward, you will eventually get there.
Welcome to Wicked Wednesday! This week’s topic is about necessity. These thoughts have been consuming me which meant I needed to get them out. And because I never believe I’m alone in how I feel, I have a feeling someone out there needed to read these words, too. If you’re wondering where the hell the smut is, click below to find it.