I do not wish to add any more.

Let me start by stealing the intro to a piece by Kenneth Goldsmith in The Chronicle.

In 1969 the conceptual artist Douglas Huebler wrote, "The world is full of objects, more or less interesting; I do not wish to add any more." I've come to embrace Huebler's idea, though it might be retooled as: "The world is full of texts, more or less interesting; I do not wish to add any more."

I came across this in a writing course I took in college and it really hit home for me. I often think, "what makes you so special? Why would anyone want to hear what you have to say? You don't matter. Nobody cares. Don't bother." So I obey these thoughts of inadequacy in my head and sit in a miserable silence. And of course there's a double standard -- I convince myself that the negative thoughts are what other people think, and the positive ones are just me trying to make myself feel better so couldn't possibly hold any truth.

I suppose part of it is the trend of "sharing" media on the internet. There's a part of me that doesn't care for even this "reuse" of media. My Twitter, Pinterest walls, Facebook page, Tumblr -- I'm probably missing some more of these, but you get the picture -- are sparse.

But even with the abundance of pins and tweets and memes, there are hundreds if not thousands of opinion articles published every day. Plenty of people think their opinions are worth hearing (or reading) and plenty of people even read those opinions. Hell, I read them too. And I think to myself how clever, witty or insightful the author is. This inevitably leads to "why can't I be so clever, witty or insightful?" And because I just love extrapolation and hyperbole, I end up at "why am I such a piece of shit?"

This individual blog post has been "in progress" for literally months. If not for the ease of saving drafts, I'd have scrapped it long ago and never returned to it. But here I am. Time to be clever, witty or insightful. Come on, Chel. Come on. Hey. What's wrong with you? Everyone else and their mothers can blog. What's wrong with you?

The truth, which causes a hurt I feel deep in my gut, is that there is absolutely nothing wrong with me. Just like there's absolutely nothing wrong with you, dear reader. Why does this hurt? Because it's counter to everything I've told myself my entire life. It goes against my deepest beliefs and the way I have always seen the world. It makes me uncomfortable to face the truth, and I'm sure it's uncomfortable for you as well. If you've been swimming in a well of self-confidence and conceit, well you can just go fuck yourself. The rest of us need help facing this truth.

So let me say it again. This is as much for you as it is for me:

There is nothing wrong with you. Millions of people feel the way you do. I promise you that. You are not alone.