I Can(‘t) Do Anything

Quiet, crippling self doubt… it lies in wait in so many of us. I’ve heard plenty of stories of acclaimed artists that have suffered this mental snafu. Oftentimes (regularly in addicts), it is paired with the sensation of inflated self worth… strange as it could be. The paradox leads to plenty of complex issues, and as just noted, can often be medicated with alcohol and drugs. The internal puzzle makes so little sense on the sharp surface that the desire to dull the edges so it doesn’t cut so hard is difficult to deny. This morning, I just had the thought that I can(‘t) do anything… Everything is possible, and I could potentially not be capable of doing any of it. It was a bit alarming, and definitely dramatic. My wife and daughters like to claim that I am the most dramatic person in the family. I tend to agree, but I would prefer to call it “theatrical” or something… I exaggerate. Anyways, I suffer bouts of self doubt, tremendously debilitating ones, and then I cobble together enough truth to carry me through those lowlands. At nearly forty-seven, I’d like to believe that I’m soon to lay waste to that shadow self so that I can carry on in greater wholeness… and, if I can’t slay it, maybe, we’ll just have to become better friends.