Over-Analyze This: How Self-Doubt Ruins Everything

The Conjuring

By Celeste T. Parker

The worst pain is self-inflicted.

I’ve always felt this way, but the emotions are intensified on what will easily go down as one of the worst days of my life.  For as long as I can remember I’ve dreamed of being a writer a la Carrie Bradshaw: the cool clothes, sharp shoes…exclusive events.  After a particularly “BIG” fall and winter (i.e. chilling break-up), I was ready to spring into what I’ve proclaimed to be my most fabulous summer ever.  But it seems Halloween has come early. 

God put the words in my head and the pen in my hands years ago.  But on June 1st I was given the opportunity to share my writing on a much larger platform as a correspondent for The Six Brown Chicks.  Membership in the nest has its privileges.  One such perk was the invitation to a movie preview.   Now… you have to know me to understand my penchant for picture shows, my thirst for theater, and my love of lights twinkling above.  It’s like Christmas for me.  Top that off with the fact that I’ve been dying to go to the Santa Claus…err, granddaddy of movie houses–the ShowPlace ICON ever since it’s opened.  And yet when the opportunity presented itself, like a re-gifted fruitcake I left it unopened.

There was no chainsaw involved, but I was cut down in size by a two-headed monster, insecurity and uncertainty.  I have an imagination that rivals George Lucas’ and Wes Cravens’.  This is both a blessing and a curse.  You see, while my mind’s-eye is what affords me the creativity and flexibility to write, my tendency to overanalyze often leaves me paralyzed. 

Freddy Krueger, Michael Myers and Jason Voorhees have nothing on my pondering of things past, present and future.  And so as my hand hovered over the invitation like a machete over a victim, I was strangled by thoughts of what I would wear, what I would say to the “real” writers or how I would measure up to “The Chicks” who might be there.  Thursday the 27th quickly became Friday the 13th.  I was terrified. 

Worse still, was BIG the sequel.  Like a ghost, my ex reappeared in my life.  And like the screaming woman who inevitably trips over air in every horror flick, I made a misstep.  I’m embarrassed to admit that similar to the family that moves into a haunted house, I allowed him back in, cleared my schedule and waited for his call and promised date.  Looking back kept me from a chance to propel forward.    When I came to my senses and rushed to RSVP, the evite was closed like a tomb.   My dreams of being a fabulous film critic, or at least a sensational spectator lay lifeless on the floor.  Murder, she wrote.

I’ve been watching my email and Twitter accounts like a stalker today hoping and praying for another chance.  As the hours tick by and show time approaches, I sit here with the poisonous aftertaste of procrastination.  But to everything there is a season.   As my heart sets with the sun I have to believe that the summer will still be fabulous.  The next time “the monster” rears its ugly head and threatens to conjure up negative thoughts in mine, I’ll remember that heaven is my muse and that until I get there God has purposed me to be

Any door that He opens, He will equip me to walk in.  I will fight with a vengeance…and RSVP ASAP!

Etiquette Correspondent Celeste Parker is an educator and author of ‘Pigs Don’t Wear Pearls’ Bedtime Stories That Awaken Your Child to the Gem That Lies Within. Follow Celeste on Twitter @PigsDWPearls.
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