It’s crazy how this imposter syndrome hits extremely hard. Imagine you’re a baseball, and the pitcher is Aroldis Chapman, and he throws you at his fastest speed, 105.8 mph, and Imposter Syndrome is at bat and knocks that ball right over the green wall at Fenway. As you’re in the air you’re like holy shit, what the fuck how in the hell did that son of a bitch hit me like this and to top it off that bastard got me flying.
Once you land and roll before you come to a complete stop and your mind stops spinning, your first thought is, well damn I.S. didn’t have to hit me that hard. Then you ask yourself why you let it hit you that hard? If you’ve done it before, why can’t you do it again? Maybe because you’re doing it a different way? And all of the what ifs, buts and can’ts come to mind. You question yourself and ask, who are you?
I am a published author, and I’m not going to let I.S. get me down again, especially to the point where I’m just like fuck it, I don’t want to get up. I must, I must get my ass back up.
Arnittress Dowdy 