Constantly Second Guessing

It's no secret that I'm insecure. I couldn't hide that fact if I wanted.  Whether I'm feeling insecure about my looks, my abilities, or my choices in life, the result is the same: I never think it's good enough.

So why, then, would I create things with my own two hands and try to sell them? And why would I write something and submit it to a website for possible publication?

I think I just like to suffer. There's no other explanation. I must enjoy being tortured. Maybe I'm addicted to the heart-beating-too-fast-all-day-long, sick-to-my-stomach, overwhelming torture that are my panic attacks.

For the Arkansas fundraiser, I made 3 cross stitch projects from patterns I found online.  Those sold quickly and easily.  I made 2 string art projects, free hand. One has been spoken for, the other sits on my counter gathering dust.  Not for lack of trying. I posted it on my personal fb page, a fb sale site, and craigslist. Nothing. Crickets chirping. Panic attack.  I tie dyed tshirts.  I got 3 custom orders that totaled 5 shirts. In that time, I made 2 extra shirts to sell.  Again, I posted them all over the internets. No response. Nada. Zip. Zilch.  Not only am I scared that they won't sell and I'll have spent money I don't have to spare in order to buy the supplies needed to make these things, it also makes me feel like a failure.  It makes me feel rejected and lousy.

Apparently the insecurity of posting my handy-works online wasn't painful enough; I decided to submit an essay-style article to Scary Mommy.  I followed the specifications put forth by the website and now I have to wait.  The site said that if it is chosen for publication, I will be notified within one week of submission. I submitted it late Friday, so I'm giving it until Saturday before I consider this yet another defeat.  The next 5 days will be horrible. They will be long and drawn out.  Nothing will be distracting enough to make me forget that I basically put myself on display and asked to be brutalized.  That is the feeling I get when I do anything for public consumption. (This blog doesn't count because it feels like I'm just writing in a journal.  Also, hardly anyone reads it anyway.  It's small potatoes and therefore not terrifying.)  They could choose to pass on my article for a variety of reasons, but I will take that as a personal rejection. I'm not good enough. I'm not funny enough or a talented enough writer.  It doesn't matter that it could be lost in the shuffle of a hundred million emails by other people.  It doesn't matter if it just isn't relevant to their demographic.  In my mind, in my heart, it will be a simple case of "you suck, Trish".

And so, it's going on several days of almost non-stop panic attacks.  Legitimate panic attacks, too.  I'm talking clinical, not this exaggerated "oh snap" kind of feeling regular people experience.  I have a diagnosed anxiety disorder.  I am sick, I feel like I'm having a heart attack, and my head is swimmy.  I'm sweaty and clammy and clenching my jaw. The combination of financial struggles, the impending trip, and the overabundance of disregard or disliking of my handmade goods/writing is throwing me for a loop.

Will this pass? Of course.  I know that, you know that, the world knows that. Will I survive? Absolutely. I always do.  Does that make this any easier or more manageable.  Hell to the no!  Just send me luck, good vibes, or whatever kind of positive juju you have, my friends.  I seriously feel like that awkward 9 year old girl being told she's too chubby, too stupid, too ugly, and worthless to be loved.  I don't need validation b/c I won't believe it anyway.  Just good thoughts. That's all.