My Doubt-Monster was a dust bunny—a fuzzy, nebulous dust bunny with a Linus-like halo and a body brush clutched in one of its Mickey Mouse hands. It was lime green with an undertone of sinus-infection khaki to better ‘keep it real’, of course.
Why the body brush? Who the hell knows, but it was far too cute for its own good. It was far too cute to be any kind of real at all.
Then the amazing Tasha Lovsin put things to right by rendering her doubt as putrid, slimy, and repugnant.
She outed her Monster for the giant booger it is.
And when I say monster, I do mean monster. I’m not referring to healthy, poignant self-searching—I’m referring to the bottom-feeding douche-bag gnawing into our not-so-subconscious minds to infect us with its malignant green snot.
I’m referring to the downward spiral that can happen when that snot oozes into the crevasses of your psyche and short circuits the neurons working overtime to keep you in hope, to keep you engaged with your life.
I’m talking about the paralysis created by a level of self-consciousness that does everyone harm and wishes no one well. I’m talking about the type of doubt that strips you of your duty to self and others because it cripples you with fear.
I’m talking about susserous cruelties demanding that joy give way to sorrow, that books be left unwritten and stories untold. Doubt-Monsters destroy dreams of owning a business or gaining financial independence or meeting someone with whom you want to share your life. Forget travelling the world and seeing new things. You’re too stupid for improve; your art-work isn’t good enough, you never were as smart as your friend in grade four, and by the way—you are too fat for that dress, that suit, that fucking t-shirt. You won’t make it, of course you won’t—who ever gave you the idea you would? Why would anyone buy that off you anyway, or follow your blog, or pay for your services, or take your class, or come to your dinner party, or laugh at your joke, or even want to be your friend….
I’ve heard, felt, thought, related to, and been brought to my knees by enough of this ignorance to want to scream my way through the streets naked—scars, cellulite, birthmarks, and all—in protest of that ugly green bastard.
Then I remember that I actually like my neighbours and put my pants back on.
It’s not the scars I’m worried about—it’s the pot-luck dinners I may no longer be invited to.
I’m not a ‘self-love-at-any-cost’ person. Certain aspects of my nature are in need of repair and there is always something higher to reach for. Questioning useless or suspect parts of self is required.
But my ameliorations are no longer an open invitation to my Doubt-Monster, nor is it a call for all and sundry to bear witness to my struggles. I’m comfortable with the dichotomy of examining my beliefs without condemning them; of remaining confident on the outside even as I question what’s going on inside.
Refusing to turn myself over—refusing to cave to the temporary relief a Stockholm syndrome moment—is a prerequisite for honest self-examination. So is trust and forgiveness.
I have contributed nothing while locked in my Doubt-Monsters embrace.
A steep word with grave ramifications.
Booger-green entities don’t get to make important decisions; healthy self-doubt differs greatly from self-degradation.
This reckoning was simplified after someone drew an honest picture—an impulsive, somewhat comical picture with immense ramifications.
Thanks Tash. 🙂
My two middle fingers are a silly reminder not be so angst-ridden, especially in the company of my giant, cunty Doubt-Monster. Juvenile but true. Nothing disrupts misguided self-seriousness like a little immaturity.
Doubt is a handy mistress but your Doubt-Monster is an asshole. So is mine. It’s an important distinction to make and important distinction to act upon.
Of this I have no doubt at all.