Impostor syndrome and listening to the voice

Winner GLBT category

Sometimes,

In life,

we do stupid things,

worse,

sometimes,

we perpetuate,

stupid things.

We don’t listen to the little voice.

You know the one I mean,

right?

the one that tells you,

don’t do that,

don’t go there,

let it go.

We argue,

with the little voice,

‘don’t tell me what to do!!”

“don’t be shallow, there is more than meets the eye”

I have won arguments,

with my little voice,

and,

more times,

than I wish,

to acknowledge,

I have been wrong.

The thing is,

the little voice,

has got that,

blink thing,

going for it,

it ‘sees’ in the blink of an eye,

and,

uses all your knowledge, baggage, instinct,

to come to,

what can sometimes seem,

a rash judgement,

decision,

I don’t think it is.

Something very unpleasant,

happened this week,

what it is,

and,

who was ‘right’,

doesn’t really matter,

but,

it was once again,

an example,

to me,

of not listening to,

my little voice.

I like to think of myself,

as fair minded,

a good person,

far from perfect,

a work in progress,

trying not to make the same mistakes twice.

Like most people,

I have boundaries,

they aren’t barbed wire or concrete,

I can be made to change my mind,

and,

I often do,

I think a person must,

or else you stay in your stagnant pool of complacency.

Some things,

I cannot abide,

being talked down to,

being patronized,

being made to feel guilty.

nope.

But,

my integrity and honour,

being questioned,

well,

that,

as the saying goes,

is a deal breaker.

I know that many of us,

are the walking wounded,

people have lived through their own,

private hells,

and,

come out on the other side.

I cut slack,

especially for the abused, wounded, confused and brutalized

and,

I make allowances for different world views,

the thing is,

I expect the same in return.

A while ago,

someone who was relatively new in my life,

and,

who had been very sweet and generous,

questioned my integrity,

it shook me,

they couldn’t have been further from the truth.

I rose above it,

my hurt and anger,

in spite of what the little voice was screaming,

‘walk away” she said,

“no good can come of this”

well,

yep,

dummy that I am,

I ignored it,

and,

said,

“ah come on, it was just a misunderstanding, insecurity rearing it’s head”

but,

the voice was right,

nothing good could come after that barrier,

had been violated,

for either party,

this person,

hurt me with their doubt,

and,

I had obviously hurt them,

to bring up,

the doubt.

Things could never be the same again.

So, the events of this week,

were the inevitable,

conclusion.

The thing is even when,

you don’t listen to your,

little voice,

it does seem to play out,

that ‘she’ was right!!

Dang, I hate that:-)

To add to the confusion,

and,

the noise,

going on,

in your head,

there is another little voice,

this one,

is negative,

doesn’t try to protect you from hurt,

like the other one,

this is the one that tells,

you,

you are an impostor,

not really that smart or talented,

that is the impostor syndrome one,

and,

this one,

you should never listen to.

This is the one that tells,

you in your head,

and,

sometimes out loud,

in the voice of others,

‘you aren’t a real writer, you are just a blogger, a neophyte, an impostor”

“everyone takes photos, why would you think yours are any better?”

I don’t think they are better,

I think they are mine,

and,

that is all they can be.

I have been reading a wonderful,

short little book,

Steal Like An Artist,

by Austin Kleon,

I read about it in a photography article.

Two big things,

it has taught me.

Use your digits(fingers and hands)

not just the digital,

and,

I am not an impostor,

I am working on being,

the woman,

the butch,

the friend,

and,

lover,

I wish to be,

and,

that is wonderful,

also,

hard.

Yesterday,

I stopped at the art supply store,

got a cheap sketch pad,

some pencils and felt markers,

and,

I wanted a red pencil,

I told the man behind the counter,

it was for corrections,

instead of saying editing,

he asked me if I was a teacher,

I said,

“no I’m a writer”

it was the first time ever,

that I did not qualify it,

or hem and haw,

that felt,

better,

than I can,

describe.

A week of voices.

Later girls,

BB