Three attempts. That is how many times I have attempted to write about the crippling, mind-numbing disease that is fear. Not just any fear. But the fear of failure. Not even failure of something tangible. The fear that you may fail to please someone. The fear that your actions will engender disappointment. What an ugly word. The internal sibilance creates the audio image of a snake hissing, slithering, being. It makes you shudder involuntarily. You feel sick.
I go to grip my pen for the fourth time to begin my so-called timed essay. The nib rolls smoothly over the clean paper, yet only a trail of mindless blue ink spools out like a meandering spiders web. I want to write, funny thing is I have something to say. To my mind it appears coherent, intelligent, potentially holding a degree of worth. And then I see my report. The disappointing remark of my tutor. That vile word again snaking its way into my consciousness. Like a child eager to please, I want to wipe the imagined disdain from her face when she reads my essay. I want to please her. It is an insatiable desire that frustrates me. On one hand I’m told to be a critic, to challenge and redefine, re-read and reinterpret. On the other hand I’m told to please. I don’t want to write any more. It makes me sad because unfortunately I don’t think i’m strong enough to look disappointment in the eye and say boldly ‘ca m’est egal.’