The door slammed in my face and I reached for the handle, but he threw his voice at me, “Who do you think you are? You can’t do that. What are you doing? Stop. You can’t pull this off. You’re going to fail. Someone else will do it better – someone who has more of a reason to do that. You’re not good enough to finish this. No one is going to want to read what you have to say. Stop it now. Look at yourself. You’re embarrassing yourself. You’ll continue to embarrass yourself.”
I froze. He was right. I dropped my hand to my side and turned away from the door.
He sighed, “It’s true. You’re not as good as you think you are. They’ll think you’re arrogant. You’re saving yourself from humiliation. You’re doing yourself a favour. Let someone else do it. Stay home. Here with me. I know who you really are.”
I sat down on the couch and chewed on a nail until I wrapped my arms around myself not in a hug that I needed.
“See,” he said, “you’re biting your nails already. You’re a mess. You thought you’d be able to go out and do that? Seriously? Look at you. You don’t have the confidence needed. You need to be better. There’s others more skilled than you. Let’s just put something on to watch. Read that book you’ve had sit on your desk. If you can’t even do the dishes, then how are you supposed to do anything more? The world doesn’t need another failure.”
I felt the pressure sink into the pit of my stomach as I slowly stood and made my way into the kitchen. I poured myself a glass of water and sipped it slowly. He was so loud today. A tenderness tickled the back of my neck and I shivered.
A quiet voice whispered in my ear. I could barely hear her over his rants. I tried to ask her what she had said but he just seemed to get louder.
“Seriously, stop trying!” he snapped, the pain of his words might as well have been a whip against my back, “You’re pathetic. Ugly. A waste of space. Who do you think you are? You can’t do that. What are you doing? Stop….”
His voice was loud and intruding. I trembled again as I sipped the water and heard her whisper again, this time closer. I could almost make her out. Her quiet voice might have had few words but it was insistent.
“You can do this,” she said.
I smiled. My thoughts a relief against his shrapnel.
There you are. I’ve been looking for you.
I really hope that this wasn’t a portrayal of your home life growing up, but I have a feeling it was. I’m glad you knew that the quiet voice was the one to listen to and not the shouting abusive voice. Otherwise your writing would not be a living entity in the world and I would not be interacting with you right now. Everything you do to express yourself has value and I have a feeling that your words have opened up the doors for many gay youth to feel safe. Keep on writing Michael.
This piece is a portrayal of Imposter Syndrome. Though you’re not far off. It probably stems from my childhood. The ‘he’ voice is the Imposter voice which are the type of thoughts that run through my head. It’s horrible, isn’t it? The ‘she’ voice is the quiet voice in which I need to learn to listen out for and listen instead. Many people suffer from Imposter Syndrome and I suspect will connect with this piece of fiction. As for my childhood, I recommend reading ‘He Was A Boy Who Smiled’ to get a better idea of my upbringing. Thanks for your support. 🤍