Doubt and Imposter Syndrome

remorse / ɹɪˈmɔː(ɹ)s / (n) 1: a feeling of regret 2: so very much of my childhood memories

I always find myself astounded when a friend, a colleague, a family member, or anyone, can recall their childhood with clarity. Whether a simple story from their younger years or an epic tale of long-past adventure, this clarity boggles me. A grandfather remembering with fondness their first time building Legos; my partner recalling their Christmas presents from decades past.

My youth, by contrast, is a blur; haze covered by fog. I scarcely remember anything except patterns and rooms before I reached college. Strange how such “formative years” are lost but would dictate the core of my personality. Despite missing memories, I remember some pieces keenly; sharply focused and preserved as though carved into my skull for my neurons to gaze at while they fire away.

Those memories are of my mistakes.

There are times the words fell out of my mouth faster than I could stop them. The times when teenage hormones pulled one over on me. The poor judgment calls the rational part of my mind failed to catch as muscles triggered in defiance of reason. Each one is a light bulb in my head connected to all-too-many others tugging incessantly at my focus. When they flash, I twitch in a physical manifestation of regret because of the pain, perceived and not, I caused others in my life.

My mind runs circles in my head, pacing out a long marathon between boundaries crossed and shortcuts taken when none were needed. In these times, I wonder how I'm still here and if I deserve to be. If all I can remember of my past is negative, what positives would ever cancel it out? Is it even possible to reconcile the past and present? In this light, perhaps those two moments in time when I very nearly fell into the darkness but for a narrow victory of self-preservation were justified punishment for a life of ignorant behavior. Perhaps they stopped short of such justified punishment; the world failing to claim its bounty.

My mother tells me it's a miracle I'm still here; as though some grace or strength of character prevents me from falling fully and never coming back. My friends might say my sense of self-worth is greater than I realize and only in times of dire need does it rise. I personally believe neither of these and attribute my survival to quirks of fate, with an alternate end waiting just a breath away.

“Sucks, but why does it matter for this story?” Valid question. Even having been saved from myself by family, friends, and medications (and permanently saved by the love of my life), the lingering regrets of those years remain in my mind. My father has the same quirk of memory, but miraculously manages to naturally translate it into self-improvement instead of self-hate; a skill which took me longer than a decade to develop with any sort of competency. How can I now have someone who sees “good” in me when there's so much evidence to the contrary?

This permanent imposter syndrome is what matters. Why aren't there more heroes who truly believe they are helpless by rote? Our culture perceives heroism as taking action to right a wrong, save a life, fighting for justice, or “(insert clarion call for cause X here).” The hero of the story pursues change; hunts down evil. Some do so grim-faced and serious; others with a smile and a battle cry.

I can never be a hero, not that way. My heroism is incremental; tiny; small gains against the demons plaguing my mind and driving me away from happiness. In this story, Shikya's internal monologue is my internal monologue: constantly snide and always contrarian, but seriously questioning. Why isn’t the hero plagued with the doubt their side is the right one or if their actions are proper or hurtful? My heroism lies awake at night, turning its hairs gray with worry.

Thus, this story is written by me for me. It is a catharsis and affirmation heroes could be like me. Maybe lack of self-worth and -confidence are not insurmountable barriers. Perhaps the corner of the hero's mind can be filled with screaming fear and self-hatred. I share my catharsis in the hope others might feel the same and find gratification in not being alone.

• SK Kage

To my partner,

My rock,

My foundation,

And for whom I’d live it all again.