I am human. I am painfully conscious of my own disillusioned state. I am painfully conscious of the self-loathing monster that lives deep inside me; wrecking my perception of myself, creating boundaries that which constitute a great portion to how, and if, I let people in.
I am human. I have insecurities.
1640s, “state of being unsafe,” also “lack of assurance or confidence, apprehension,” from Medieval Latin insecuritas, from insecurus. Specific psychological sense is by 1917.
I am greatly insecure about my hands, my cheeks, my belly, the infinite amount of spots on my back and shoulders, the way I sound, and more that would probably take too long for me to list.
I don’t fear death. Despite us humans not being able to comprehend complete nothingness, I don’t fear it. I fear dying and feeling like I’m a failure, like I did nothing to contribute even a sliver to the world. I fear being unaccomplished. I fear dying without ever creating something, anything.
I am human. I have flaws; more than you can count and more than I can admit. But that’s alright. That’s part of what makes us human.
Too often, these fears and insecurities may way us down. They may make us question our significance and worth. But if channeled right, these can actually become our fuel. They can become the thing that drives us, the thing that motivates us to try and pursue being a better version of ourselves.
I want to be a better version of myself.
I want to learn how to love myself. I want to learn how to accept who I am, who I was, and who I will be. And as much as I want to tell you how to do that, I can’t. I don’t know yet.
Another thought is that after all this, nothingness will encompass us. We become a memory to the world we left behind, whilst our own memories whither away. To the universe, whatever we do is inherently pointless because entropy is inevitable. But that’s just the universe. What we do may not matter to the universe but it matters to someone else, may it be your husband, wife, your best friend, your children, or the stranger you met at the park. You are significant, no matter what people tell you. Even if that’s just to one person, or even just to yourself. What matters is that you’re happy. What matters is that you didn’t waste your whole life loathing and scratching at your scabs. What matters is that you matter to yourself.
(Always remember that putting yourself first isn’t selfish. Putting your wants before other people’s needs is. So it’s okay to take care of yourself. It’s okay to put your needs first.)
Why waste your time wallowing in complete and utter anguish when you can simply enjoy your time here? There might not be a reason why you ended up here, but you exist, nonetheless.
So what if I have a bigger belly than what I expect to have? So what if I have spots on my back? Who cares? Why would it matter? Why would it matter to anyone that I sound pretentious due to the fluctuating accent that I have?
So although even our influences and the memories that people have of us will perish, I choose to live my life in a way where I can devote myself to what I’m passionate about. I choose to live my life risking, loving, seeking more, learning more.
We’ll always have fears or insecurities. If you don’t, you aren’t human. But these will only turn bad if you let them control you instead of you controlling them. The universe is bigger than these little shits, always remember that.
I can’t say that I have accepted myself fully, nor can I say that I finally have the motivation and will to live out the rest of my life (as it isn’t that easy). But, what I can say is that I’m willing to try. I haven’t lost all hope. And I do believe that you, too, haven’t lost all hope because if you have, then you wouldn’t be reading this right now.
Feel free to interpret that any way you want.
P.S. I’m sorry this went from talking about insecurities to the inevitability of death and how pointless life is then back again