I’m not good enough. It is as simple as that; I’m just not good enough. There is a wicked little voice somewhere inside of me, whispering of my inadequacies, reminding me of my shortcomings. I’ve tried to quell it with all of the positive thinking I can muster, but still it never quiets. If I could rid myself of this angst I imagine I would rise higher into the literary heights I often dream of, but alas, the beast that it is does not share my dreams.
It cannot stop the words from flowing forth; it cannot keep me bound in some wordless prison. No, all of my words are locked up right alongside of me. Every now and again I find escape. Every now and then I feel a sense of accomplishment. Each time I do however, the voice begins to babble. Each time I see my name in print it should fill me with pride and it quite often does, sadly though, it doesn’t last for long.
I question each word I write, for the longest time I kept my words hidden so no one would see. It is a small victory for me each time I show the world what lay within me. I often wonder if this battle will always be. If I will always feel not good enough, if I will ever stop waiting for someone to finally tell me to stop writing and wasting my time.
Words have been my constant companions; they have never failed me, never judged me, never left me. They let me do with them what I will; they give themselves to me without question. The voice tells me they are not mine to have, I am not worthy of them.
In my heart I do not believe it, in my heart I know my words are meant to be, I know I am worthy of them. It is not my heart that stands between me and what could be, it is my mind, my ever working, ever wondering, ever wandering mind that builds the walls I must climb.
It is a sometimes a struggle to knock them down, yet brick by brick they fall and I make my way past the rubble and travel with my head held high, praying no more walls will block my path. I know I will one day find the strength to hush the voice of doubt, for I know that small, yet powerful voice is my own.
Crystal R. Cook