A most peculiar hyper-specific fear has lodged itself into my brain and plagued me a great deal as I’ve tried to stitch my life into a tolerable shape. A lot of my self-worth is baked into the idea of me being articulate. This has been true ever since I was (then inaccurately) called articulate for the very first time by an internet friend around the age of thirteen. The act of writing has been a constant struggle for me largely because I feel this immense pressure to live up to this assigned ideal. I am constantly grappling with the idea that I am supposed to be articulate therefore it is a personal failure when I cannot eloquently express my ideas. I know deep down that this is a ridiculous thing to focus on as I can always inevitably find my way to words even if it ends up burdened by my typical slightly awkward, tad stilted fashion without the aid of an outside editing force. This part never calcified into a true fear.

 My real fear is that I have nothing actually substantive to say. That for all the time I’ve invested in improving my capacity to write and the endurance tests of actually typing out words to throw into the void, it’s all for naught because I have either nothing worthwhile to say or cannot pass a certain surface level of detail.

 This is a thought that has come to me especially strongly as a potent form of embarrassment when I realize with a fright that I cannot actually go on for hours about my special interests when given the space to do so. I’m always thinking that I can and yearning for the opportunity to do so, but it feels like when I’m actually presented with the chance to either dump all the information I know on someone eager to listen with no background knowledge of the thing or to engage with someone also invested in the thing, I become so painfully tongue-tied. I can penetrate a few layers of skin on the subject, present a compelling point or two, but when it comes to actually meaningfully go on about something at length I feel like a fraud or I slip away from the actual subject at hand.

 This difficulty isn’t limited to just spoken conversation where I might understandably be afflicted by the inability to thrive without my sources and the luxury of time. I struggle with this immensely in the realm of creative writing as detail is one of my fiercest weaknesses. I am incapable of going as far into detail with descriptions or particular character thoughts as many of my readers would like me to. Even when pressed, I feel as if I am burdened by an inability to conjure anything up that would fit without excruciating effort. I also feel this restriction in scope when it comes to my video essay ambitions. I can construct potential essays that easily gather multiple things together or follow an orderly structure/theme (such as a ranking), but a comprehensive, detailed coverage of a particular thing feels well beyond my abilities without extreme force and effort. My analysis can only go so far before I am forced to admit a most shame-inducing “I don’t know what else to say.” A phrase that stings worse than a confession of not knowing something. As a characteristically Verbose person I should have something to say. I am known (to an extent) for always having something to say once I break free of the initial shyness that crops up when I first get to know people. People strangely want to know what else I have to say and I am deathly afraid of disappointing them with how little there is. How easily I’ll crumble when asked further questions that brush up on the limits of my wretched memory.

 Too often I will also be exposed to things that I simply won’t have any thoughts or opinions on. Or if I do, they’re not ones I can capture that well in words and feel inclined to share them. It makes me feel as if I am passively consuming life, allowing it to flow through my senses and out the other side without leaving an impression. Much like my struggles with conjuring up wants and desires, I feel that I have to induce thoughts on things manually because I otherwise won’t. Oftentimes I won’t even retain much memory of the thing I was exposed to which can be a boon in some cases, but a detriment in many others. I have to constantly re-experience things in order to recall my impressions of them and the shelf life of things that exist within me and my awareness is pitiful. I am helpless when it comes to having discussions that involve referencing an abundance of things and drawing comparisons between things unless they are incredibly fresh. This is so pronounced of a problem that I sometimes find it inconceivable that I even remember basic things like how to write or draw basic shapes (though I do have evidence to support my mounting belief that I am actively forgetting how to make art as my art gets worse in leaps).

 Perhaps this all is a deep-rooted aversion to difficult things or perhaps it’s a consequence of poor memory. Perhaps it's both of those at once. I fear that what it actually is might be a lack of depth. That I am a fundamentally surface-level person that’s really good at giving off an impression of intellect, wit, and depth when there’s actually nothing there once you get to know me too well or see too much of my work. Either because I will run out of the initial first impression steam and no longer be able to put in the effort (which does sound an awful lot like masking) or I simply run out of pre-prepared self material that I can remember. I then have to reveal just how little I have to offer. I can only combat this by being someone my friends are exposed to in small doses here and there where I have ample time to acquire new information, new surface level interests to discuss and spout meaningless words about. If seen with any amount of regularity, it will become all too apparent that I am a fraud and all notions of me being intelligent or capable will wash away in an instant.

 Even with this discussion of my issue I struggle to find things to elaborate on. I suspect there’s more to it, more that I could describe and endeavor to understand, but it’s simply out of reach for me. Is it truly self-awareness if all I can do is label the thing without understanding it? Sure, that’s the first step, but what if that’s all you’re capable of doing over and over again because you keep forgetting and suffering anew?

 This struggle is depressingly cyclical. In my sparse records, old failed attempts at journaling to social media vent posts, I often see my past selves tiptoeing around the same issue, but always too afraid to voice the possibility that I might not be intelligent or truly articulate as part of it. It’s one of a set of issues that I am prone to falling victim to again and again without ever truly escaping. They are the toxic lovers I will always return to the open arms of when left to my own devices or starved of real things to do.

 As much as I would love for this to be another baseless cruelty that my brain loves to lob at itself as a default action, I can’t shake the feeling that there might be some fundamental truth to it that I must acknowledge in order to overcome. The idea that I am actually doing something wrong in the equation to make myself feel this way, because if it’s been such a persistent issue it must be something that I’ve caused to happen.

 There is no conclusion to this article. There is no plan moving forward apart from continuing my ever-raging battle against my own memory and making efforts to put more effort into the things that I do. I also must accept the possibility that I am less intelligent than I’d like to be and that there’s nothing wrong with that. There’s no moral failing assigned to lacking intelligence. I am not worth any less if this ends up being true and I can always take steps to properly work on myself. To not allow the rot to set in and deteriorate my selfhood any further.

 I questioned the value of sharing these thoughts publicly. They read, in many ways, like a stain. An awkward blemish one ought not go around showcasing to their friends as it can only disturb rather than intrigue. Ultimately, I returned to the policy I’ve adhered to before when it comes to sharing: Would I have wanted to read someone share this experience? Would reading a similar experience, no matter how poisonous, bring me some comfort to know that I am not alone with such frightful thoughts? The answer was a pained yes.

 Next time I vow to post my long overdue Pathologic article on the subject of grief. I want to invest a lot of effort into this one to make something of this awful month of my life and to reach an appropriate level of depth. See you soon.