The self-doubt has made a fine log cabin in my head.
With acres of untamed fields and woodland of niggling questions and mountainous arguments. Wood for the trees? That's me. And each tree feels like a whomping willow, forcibly thwacking me with branches of self-deprecation, cutting deep rivulets in already low confidence. No tyre swings or fairy godmothers in sight. The sun is shining with a darkness, lining silver clouds and locking in the goodness. The fog refuses to give up its Brochen spectres, leaving me cold and lonely, warm in the knowledge of impending failure.
Yep. I am already writing myself off. (No pun intended there.) Do they do insurance deals for confidence? You know, in the case of serious self-doubt they provide you with a hire-ego while taking yours away to massage it back into self-belief?
Argh!
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