When I see a confident and relaxed man with his girl on the street, I just know it. I know there is something wrong with me. I know that this man has something I lack. It hurts. It makes me feel lost, inferior, fallen, alone.
This man has trust in himself.
I have been running from this feeling my whole life. I thought if I could just imitate that man, do whatever he does, act like he acts, move like he moves, speak like he speaks; if I could convince everybody that I am in fact that man, I could start believing it myself.
I wanted to believe that everybody is just faking it, because I was. I wanted the world to be a show, so that I could run from that deeply seated, but vague notion I call inner emptiness for lack of a better word. Run from my overwhelming shame for not being who I should be, shame for that leaking wound in my soul that surely was my own fault, a wound that was an abomination and an insult to they eyes of everybody I dared to show it to.
When a girl I desired told me that I was not confident enough to be attractive, I knew she was right. But I did not even have enough confidence to acknowledge this. I did not even have enough trust in my own judgment to acknowledge the obvious truth. Instead, I hated her. I still hate her. I hate all the people who pry open my soul and expose it to my eyes, to my eyes that want to look away in terror, look away from the monstrosity I carry inside myself, that steaming graveyard of emotions.