Somehow, when I think of the concept of writing, I know I can. I form sentences in my head, full of words I adore. I make snarky jokes, I reference a million different books.

And then I sit down with the time, and that incredible amount of power rushing through me, and I just can’t. The sentences seem pretentious, confused, and uncertain. I rip up pages and discard open documents with a few words on the top. Words that are disconnected, fragmented, confusing.

And there’s this whole crushing weight of failure suspended above me, and it’s fragile.

I can’t think. Can’t think of beautiful words and beautiful situations. I think of struggling with English in classes and going from being told how uniquely I write to being told how I need to just conform already. I pull out my own flaws- how I tend to over use adverbs, how I repeat words, how I switch between tenses and how I begin sentences with ‘and’, even though it’s not grammatically correct. I think of being compared to the others my age with blogs that are well written and deep.

When I speak, I rush words. I talk too fast and use my hands expressively, as if they could speak instead of me. People tell me to slow down, to repeat what I just said. There’s a sneaking suspicion that just maybe I didn’t want them to hear me in the first place.

Because there’s this concept that I’m inadequate in a million ways but one. There’s this fear deep down of being mediocre, a fear far worse than being terrible. A fear that I think of myself far more highly than anyone thinks of me, or my writing, or my art. A fear that this will be seen as a typical. An average, angsty rant of how I don’t fit in.

And a strange fear of being assured that it isn’t.