Inadequacy, what a dreadful companion!
Reflections on a feeling that often peeks at my door
I don’t know about you, but this happens to me quite often.
I feel inadequate, not up to the situation. Like an actor forced to play a part they don’t know.
I try to hide this unpleasant feeling, fearing that others will quickly pick up on it.
In conversations, I speak little, limiting myself to brief sentences. I protect myself. I hate the looks of pity, which represent the confirmation of what I already know. I am not up to the situation.
I belong to the category of those who stay on the sidelines, those who prefer to stay behind the scenes, those who see the anxiety of visibility as smoke in the eyes.
The judgment I have of myself is harsh, without leniency or the possibility of appeal. I don’t think about it often. It’s something that has been settled for decades and won’t change.
I realize that the world moves at a speed that is unreachable for me, and this intensifies my sense of insecurity, my discomfort.
It feels like I’m speaking a different language and living in a parallel reality.
Writing for me represents a way to express my thoughts without the fear of judgment from others.
I know perfectly well that what I say interests no one or, at best, a small group of people.
And so, I don’t care about my inadequacy because I judge myself negatively and don’t expect anything.
To anyone who told me I am inadequate, I would reply that I know very well and that I write for pure fun, without any ulterior motive.
There’s no space for dreams.
Writing is a liberating act, the only thing I can do quite well. In Italian, of course, because that’s my mother tongue.
The English translation of my texts is certainly not perfect and will never fully capture my thoughts.
But that’s not important. The readers are so few that this isn’t a problem.
I write only for myself, even though I have the idea that perhaps, in some distant corner of this media ocean, there’s someone who says: “Hey, this seems written for me.”
That never happens, and maybe it never will.
And I remain in my cocoon, writing about emotions with my inadequacy watching me from the door.
