I’ve always had a weird relationship with sexuality.
Now that I’ve gotten your attention, I’ll rewind a bit to say that while I don’t typically make a huge effort to get personal in my writing, it seems to happen just a matter of course. While I’ve tried several times over the years to scrub myself from my writing and present a more objective viewpoint, I’ve slowly but surely come to the realization that the writing I like to read and to write always has the aura of the writer behind it allowing it to glow and pulse with life. So I’ve started to embrace the fact that my writing is often just another expression of the very flawed, messy person that I am, doing my best to express feelings that I have difficulty sharing in any other way.
Having whiled away the past several months mostly with very limited interaction with anyone outside my household, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about who I am and why I feel the way that I do about various things. One of the biggest things I’ve been forced to accept about myself is that I have a huge case of imposter syndrome that’s unlikely to go away any time soon. I often feel like I’m just not good enough at anything that I try to accomplish, and that anyone who thinks otherwise must be fooled somehow (because apparently being terrible at everything else somehow makes one a genius at manipulating other people). I’ve done a lot of work to try to stop my brain from obsessing over these thoughts, but I think these feelings of inadequacy are just a part of who I am. The best I can do is use those feelings to work toward fitting into the shoes of the person that people seem to think I am.
I promise this is going somewhere.