May Day! May Day!

“You’re the most talented person I know.”

Gosh. I’m only 10 minutes into my phone conversation with T, a poet-friend who’s been living in America for 6 years now, when he comes out with this.

He goes on to list the things he thinks I do well and how I inspire him. I feel the momentary bounce of feeling appreciated, of feeling seen. Acknowledged. I wonder aloud whether living in America has made him more forthright and demonstrative in expressing himself and we both agree about how well the Americans are willing to go “big or go home”.

I talk to him for the first time about my struggles with mental health and he shares his. He’s a wonderful listener. Always has been. He tells me he’s there for me whenever I need to talk and I know he means this. That he will be there.

By the end of the conversation (we speak for over an hour) I feel that insidious creep but I’m not sure what it is.

Well, its’ all very well you having talents, gifts, whatever you call them. But what good has it done you? After all these years of hacking away, you’ve never made a name for yourself or turned a profit from your music or writing. It’s a kind of noodling dilettantism. In fact, you should be ashamed of yourself.

And the truth is, I am.

It’s the first time I’ve really seen it head on. The feeling that all of these thoughts propel me towards.

Shame.

I am ashamed of myself.

But as I reread those words above, I clearly recognise the voice.

And it’s not mine.