There's a shadow constantly hovering at my shoulder.
For all my gallivanting into the social whirl, nevermind the positive social media platitudes and my incremental successes, despite all this, the shadow persists.
It's negative self-talk.
The voice--my parents' voice become mine--telling me I'm a failure, that I'm not good enough, won't be good enough, can't ever be. That my friendships are false and my achievements hollow and my personality devoid of anything remotely attractive.
On occasion it's a deep, aching weariness. Being tired of being tired. Wishing somehow to shut off the voice.
Most times I can keep the shadow behind me.
Some days it edges closer.
No one cares.
You don't matter.
I think--I hope--this too shall pass.
Reading William Styron's Vanity Fair account of his struggle with the shadow gives me hope.