Imposter Syndrome.

Insecurities I see most often in people are about their physical appearance. Although this was something I don't personally struggle with, one main insecurity I struggle with the most, and still to this day, are my skills in general. And if I wanted to elaborate on what type of skills, it would be about my writing skills.

Sometimes, I think my writing skills did a great job touching other people's heart. Sometimes, I felt confident, knowing that this was something I loved to do. I loved to write. Every day at about seven in the morning, I would sit down on my desk and open my computer to continue to write my book - a personal side project that was especially important to me. I would let the screen illuminate my face and just let my fingers glide through the keyboard. My average of 80 WPM made it even better for me to just watch my document go from empty to hundreds of pages within months. And my eyes would light up every time I created a gut-wrenching quote off the spot. I was proud of myself.

You see, that was the problem. The key word here: Was. I was proud.

And then I wake up, suddenly unable to type a sentence in my document. Suddenly, I doubt my own skills, convincing myself that this was a waste of time. This was all a waste of time. Why the hell am I wasting my time creating fictional characters that somehow had a better life than I do? And then at the moment, all I wanted to do was shut my computer and never open it again. It was all a waste of time. Suddenly, my creativity was wiped away. Suddenly, I didn't know how to put my thoughts into words. Suddenly, I was just... empty.

And then I asked myself, "How did I even get myself into the habit of writing and actually enjoying it?"

And the answer? I don't even know. Because my thoughts convinced myself that it all came from luck. Everyone was praising me because they wanted to be nice, not because I was actually good at writing. This won't get me into my future because this wasn't a real job, and I needed to do something that was worth my time.

I was a fraud. I was a fraud this whole time. This wasn't me at all. The real me wouldn't even get out of bed for the sake of writing. This was all an act. And back then, I couldn't trust anyone who gave compliments to me because this must secretly be a backhanded compliment and in reality, they actually hate what I'm doing.

I doubt my writing skills. A lot. I wasn't good enough. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I overworked myself to write, the problem was that I didn't try harder to feel happy for what I was doing. I wasn't proud of myself.

Key word: Wasn't. I wasn't proud of myself.

I eventually overcame that insecurity of mine, at least for a little bit. I started to believe what people say to me when they give compliments about my writing. I started to feel confident in my writing again. I started to think, Yeah. Maybe this wasn't a waste of time.

How could this be a waste of time if writing saved me from self-infliction?

I was self-inflicting myself for bringing myself down, knowing damn well that my thoughts were just telling me lies so I could feel miserable about myself.

Sometimes, I feel confident. And other times, I feel miserable.

But at the end of the day, writing still saved me.

I'm not the type of person who desperately needed someone to drop everything they have to save me when I was at my lowest. Because that isn't their job.

In the end, the only person who could truly save me - is myself.

I was insecure about my writing.

Maybe I still am. Maybe I'm not.

But in the end, no matter how much I wanted to quit,

I kept going.

I'm proud of myself.

No past tenses this time. No key words.

Because I know I am proud.

And I mean it this time.

8:53 P.M.