Turning off the Filter
I'm gonna turn off the filter for a moment. You know what I mean, you that blog. The mental filter you use that removes what you think might be misconstrued, misunderstood, or mistaken to mean more that what's written. This filter is fueled by the fear of repercussions, or simply the embarrassment of shared secrets. You don't want the world to know what you're really thinking, do you. Of course not.
But I'm turning off the filter for this post. Because I feel like utter crap right now. And if I don't vent some of this stuff, I'm gonna carry it home with me, where it will fester in my mind until my soul rots.
Everybody's got the good days and bad, right? The good days when you feel appreciated and accepted, where you feel successful and the work of your hands seems divinely blessed. And everything is right with the world.
Then the bad days, when everyone's on your case. And you make stupid mistakes that you never usually make, but because your boss is watching this time, it looks like you're a total moron and a waste of the company's time. You try to tell him that you normally don't do this, and he gives you that condescending look. "Of course," he says. And each new hour hammers home the idea that you don't deserve this job, you're screwing up too much and are destined to be fired, and you are pretty much a failure in general.
And you tell yourself it's not true. You "rebuke" it. You deny it. But the waves of self-loathing keep washing up the sides of your little boat, until your perspective and vision are obscured by the overwhelming tide.
You don't belong here. You're not good enough. Everyone thinks you're a phony. You'll surely lose your job soon.
And then you go home, and you try to have what little social life you can. But the waves keep crashing, baby. And now the wind's blowing. And can you hear what the wind is saying?
You're a social outcast. What's wrong with you? Why don't you have friends? You're going nowhere in life.
But then the lightening flashes. And in the flash, you see the worst of it.
You will never be loved again. Nobody thinks you're special. You will never be adored.
There you sit, in the midst of the storm, the flash and wind and rain and waves, and the nose of your little boat starts dipping beneath the surface. And you scream, and you cry out, and no one hears. No one knows. (Would it matter?)
And then, the storm fades. Dies down. Still there. Still ready to strike, coiled, serpentine, along the edge of your mind. But you think you're safe for the moment. You breathe your too soon sighs of relief.
Suddenly you're underwater.
Welcome to my Wednesday.