Monstrous Metaphors of the Minuscule Mind

Nights pass with serious sensations of having been educated for no reason at all. And then a voice resonates about building up to a fight and living with denials. I sleep deep, and wake up tired, feeling my pulse which run to the chords of the inner voice, which keeps saying, 'You can't teach, you can't be consistent, you can't read, be critical'. And then the finality, 'You can't write'. I make myself get out of the comfort of the blanket and force myself outside my room, knowing that voice was of course, a part of my own, somehow conquering my mornings and allowing me the chance to fight it, through the moments, until I fall asleep, failed.

I have not been able to address this most dangerous self whom I smell, touch and feel enough to give it a name, but I won't. I will avenge the disaster it has brought upon me. Well it says, 'There's trembling, an earthquake and hence you shall not sleep, or, there's death in the other room; You cannot teach.' But I move on, somehow, shadow punching it right in its nose. The main weapon this voice uses against me is this image of myself, decorated in perfection -- of writing, cooking, teaching, loving, losing, living. Then there are rejections, with their own faces -- some puzzled in a classroom when I try and elaborate a point, or wearing catastrophe in my relationships. I reassure myself of remaining a liar, a hypocrite, trying to project a 'best' version of me, while in my deepest core, I know I am actually just a 'performer'.

I am average, at the most, above-average, without much of advanced degrees or accolades, nor have any bestsellers crediting my so called 'brilliant' writing. I have been teaching, all sorts, in my eighth year now, and I am more honest than ever. I cannot attempt to contest the other better teachers around me, I can only challenge myself to beat the teacher that was me the previous day. Towards the end of a session, if one student has understood any little thing I have tried to explain, realized the energy that goes in the process, I am content, and to some level, confident too -- that I am better at being a teacher than I was on the first day. I have done my best bit and must accept this me has raised a notch higher and not be dreaded by the degrees of the better others.

I am non-violent, a good, rather likeable soul, I think. I love the mountains, good company, delicious meals, indulgent drinks and colours. It is weird that grey is my favourite. But that nasty voice says I am not at peace with these, that I should be aiming for greater parameters and not settle for such meager satisfaction. I like playing with the clouds and a perfect breakfast delights me, but that voice, that other me, says I am too mediocre to be so complacent and kills me, oh so, softly. I keep trying, even more softly thus. I try and be a better teacher. What remains are mere trials and flaws. each moment is a trial and the other, an error.

I joined this job to sustain my soul with the confidence, like food does to the digestive system and the taste buds. Facing more faces, being active and responsible -- to be able to live it either with tight grit or boundless joy. These faces face me too. And then the monstrously effective voice which tells me all is a waste because I am a bundle of errors, I am full of flaws. It deceives me into believing that I can only exist if I am the best. Best version of me, stay reminded. It then continues to echo that without being the best, I am but a nothing.

I rationalize, and assess if I am not something? Anything? Someone who gets tired, someone who is reticent to fight, is naturally unsocial. Another month is done, with another beginning. I just want to end it by saying I am tired of correcting tangible errors, not untouchable voices. I will hurl the hurt into a distant sea, rather than running away from it. These voices shame me. They express my fears to others and they, in turn, feed on it.

But as a promise to self, which I have been continuing to maintain, I stay calm, and fight within my own precincts. I do not give them the dignity of a social approval, when I muffle it down, or give myself in. I'll work even harder, more regularly than ever. I will write, more relaxed than compulsively. I'll keep myself from thinking, 'What after these two years?' The voices have a limit, they command my best. But it is only me, who actually, knows where my limits live. I offer a choice to myself, to run away from the pressure of being the best and finish myself in the process, because perfection does not really drop into the pocket like a sorcerer's stone. The other choice, is, to face life and them voices on my own terms and to make the best of the limit.

My first win is in getting this job, the second in taking it up before the voices drowned my confidence saying I was not good enough for it. The third in facing a class full of faces after a night of no sleep and shaky nerves.

The final win, of course, is in writing about the voices, and finally finding my voice. An audible, legible voice.