Sometimes I feel like I’ve ingested a terminal dose of self-doubt. When I’m late diagnosing it, the doubt has not only flared up but taken over, zapping my strength, halting my progress and undoing me from the outside in. But a lucid thought creeps in, if I’m lucky.
This is just doubt.
Then I come back from the brink, dazed by my near-miss with despair. I’m unlaced and hanging out by then, embarrassed by my dishevelment. Early in my recovery I don’t have the strength to pull myself together again, so I stay inside where no laces are required. I gradually feed on small bites of belief until my capacity to hold more returns. My crumbly state makes me cautious of large movements (suddenly the world is all sharp corners around me), so I shuffle along in sloppy slippers and wait for the bout of doubt to pass.
