There are nights when I think my imposter is right. Nights when my eyes are tired and my confidence is low. Nights where the shadows in my office seem to lean in and peer over my shoulder, examining the words on the screen as I type.
There are days when I feel like I can’t do it. Days when my imposter’s grey-blue eyes look calmly back at me from the reflection of my computer screen with a hint of ironical inquiry. He doesn’t say much. Instead, he implants ideas into my head. I’d rather he used words, but he’s found a more appropriate medium and it’s one I find harder to ignore.
He often appears after a positive thought has passed the first flush of its youth. The rosy glow of a (seemingly) brilliant idea has a short lifespan and must be caught quickly and gently, the way an entomologist nets a butterfly, and in the exact form in which it enters my head otherwise it quietly flutters away and disappears.
Once caught, when the idea is pregnant with possibility but still vulnerable, that’s when he goes to work. My imposter examines, prods, pokes, and sneers. Seeks out cracks and inconsistencies like an overzealous buildings inspector too thrilled with their small amount of power and influence.
When he’s picked enough holes he steps away leaving the whole thing just about intact, a flimsy structure on unstable foundations that crumbles to dust the next time I touch it. Expectations and memories are unreliable when trying to recreate something that once felt delicate and beautiful, so I quit trying to pick up the pieces and my idea ceases to exist. It heads to the coruscating scrap heap in a part of my brain to which there are no directions, only dead ends and false starts.
He grins at me as I write these words. His gapped front teeth and pale gums contrast red rosebud lips that blossom permanently in their default setting of smirk. He knows what I’m thinking. This throws me off guard and breaks my concentration.
His grip finally loosens when I begin to give myself a bit more permission. Permission to not show what I’ve written to anyone. Permission to write and it not be any good. Permission to try something new for my business and get it wrong. Permission to stop and start again. Perhaps most importantly, permission to succeed.
With each allowance, my imposter’s voice carries less weight. Stripped of their authority, those soft, malevolent thoughts just aren’t as corrosive.
He still exists, of course, and he still pops back to see me fairly regularly. But I view him more like a catalyst nowadays. If he’s here, it’s because I’m out of my comfort zone and that’s probably a good thing. We are condemned to understand each other and I allow him to be here. In some ways, it’s as if one of us can’t exist without the other.
It’s taken me a long time to start questioning what he tells me. And even longer to feel confident in evaluating each of those thoughts on its own merits. Because sometimes he’s right and sometimes he’s wrong and what matters the most is the way that I handle each of those things to get better at what I’m doing without allowing it to derail my creativity or working process.
When I accept this, my imposter becomes dispirited and doesn’t hang around as long as he once did. He slinks away without saying goodbye and it’s often several minutes before I notice he’s gone.
And when he’s gone, or rather, when he’s been and gone, that’s when I know I’m onto something good.
