I am the sort of individual who is prone to crises of confidence. I come across as bubbly and loud and silly (and don’t get me wrong, those are relatively significant parts of my personality) but at the same time, underneath, I’m pretty worried about what people think of me. Sometimes that emotion bounces to the surface, and I spend a few hours whining to Andy about whether anyone, anywhere, actually likes me. Or do they find me as ridiculous, as brash and absurd as I see myself as in the mirror?
Last night was one such night. After gibbering my way enthusiastically through the pub quiz (and simultaneously contributing absolutely nothing useful in the form of answers), I got home and panicked. Oh god – am I the most annoying person in the world? Am I the class clown, insecurities patently obvious to anyone looking in? Am I the sort of person that people like only in small doses?
Andy is used to me being me, and generally comforts and nods and says all the right things. And last night, he pointed out that whilst I am undeniably silly and a little bit knobbish, I’m also very much “me”. There’s never been any hiding, wearing of masks, pretending to be something I’m not. For all my insecurities, I’m not afraid of putting myself on show for others to judge – in fact, I’m incapable of pretending and deceiving. He reminded me that I am, in actuality, the genuine article. Not fake, far from perfect, utterly myself.
This was a comfort – it actually managed to drag me, reluctantly, back into the less melodramatic territory if liking myself. Or at least being able to tolerate myself. For all my flaws, I’m am truthful and faithful to myself. And maybe, in a world where people are always told they’re not good enough, not smart enough, not normal enough, that’s a pretty rare quality.