A monster at work

Insecurity seems to have finally kicked in. The process took a lot longer than I expected. Compared to the number of posts I have made public, it did take its time. It's not a pleasant feeling, and though I force myself to push the thoughts aside to no avail, I honestly don't think I can ignore them. After all, only the mind can poison itself; or maybe I should say, only the mind can trick itself into believing it's being poisoned.

I don't like to associate everything with social anxiety, because it is becoming a crutch I fall back on every time; and I have no desire to categorize myself with a group that I hardly have anything in common with. Just because these people have similar fears as I doesn't say anything about their core personalities or how they deal with their lives.

But at the same time, it's just unavoidable that social anxiety is a main source of my chagrin, whether directly or by extension. It is probably difficult to understand, especially for people who have never experienced any sort of mental illnesses in their lives. Psychosis is not a reality -- yet -- but there's no telling when its vicious paw, which is hungrily clutching at every shadow in the darkness within, might eventually find its way to me. It's a growing concern for me, as I have read not so long ago that one of my secondary disorders may actually lead to psychosis.

As I write this, insecurity still works its magic within me. I'm constantly assaulted by self-blaming thoughts and a destructive, misguided rage that has not yet found an outlet. "Stop writing this nonsense, you self-indulgent, talentless hack. No, you're worse than a hack, because no publishers will take that garbage even if you paid them. You ignorant redneck, worthless mongrel, selfish idiot, and pathetic excuse for a self-proclaimed artist."

With these helpful inner voices yelling at me at all times, it's hard to tell what is real, what is constructed by the deflated ego backfiring, and what is entirely false and fabricated by the incapacitating self-criticisms. I have enough trouble producing written words already, and to express my frustration is an even harder struggle with the excessively sensitive self, and the relentless, demonic voice within. "Stop with the exaggerations."

Even if I get over the fight and let everything out, guilt-trips start to haunt me for days, weeks, months. I don't need anyone to point out my whining; I have a built-in check for that, and it fires massive guilt-trips at me; like air-gun bullets, they hit precisely where it hurts, and it hurts so much; and it all comes from within, where nobody can ever see and ever touch. "Stop with the clichés."

The nerve! How can you have the nerve to tell me off, as if it were nothing? "It is nothing. You are just being an idiot." How can you presume to feel you understand? How can you push me away like a leper? "Your misuse of words is masterful." I'm not insane; I have enough awareness to think for myself. "That's nice, flip-flopping sheep." Maybe I don't have much wisdom, but how much do you expect from me? I'm only on my way out of my immature years, but it already feels like a lifetime has been wasted. How would you feel? "Stop being melodramatic. Your incessant whining sickens me."

This is not social anxiety or anything. "Would you quit mentioning that already?" This is a monster at work. "That's so ridiculously asinine." This is a monster at work.