Fluffy Confidence


photo credit coyotefugly

Look at this dog. I took this photo in the city I used to live, and I can honestly say I will never achieve the level of confidence that this dog has achieved. This dog oozes ‘cool’. People see this dog and instantly want to pet him, be his friend and take his photo, just as I did. This dog is the epitome of confident, incarnate.

I, on the other hand, have no confidence. My gay little butt will never feel as good about myself as this dog feels on a day to day basis. I try so hard, too. I write, I make art, and I try extraordinarily hard to be happy with myself at the least, but I can’t get there. I just can’t do it. I want to like myself. To like what I do. But I just can’t. I’m struggling to get my work off the ground, to get anyone to appreciate my work, and in the back of my head, I’m reminded of this dog. While I’m sobbing into my pillow about how I’m never going to make a difference in this world or matter one bit, this dog is probably laying around somewhere with his lady by his side, both smoking cigars and listening to indie rock. This dog has it together.

Why is confidence so elusive? Why does it seem so impossible to attain? People tell us to love ourselves, but no too much, because then we’re full of ourselves and have an inflated ego. There’s no middle ground with this world. You’re either complete garbage or you’re a total blowhard. There’s no in between. What happened to just sort of being ok with everything? Why does everything have to be to such levels of extremism? Why do we have to either be the best or the worst, and why can’t we just settle for being alright? For being happy with what we do, with ourselves, even if we aren’t the best. People often say “It’s a dogs life”. They say that dogs have it easy, and we should all be so lucky to be dogs. As someone who’s sat around for 5 years doing nothing but sleeping and eating and going for walks, ie; living the life of a dog, lemme tell ya, it isn’t all that fun. It gets real old real fast. I’d much rather have a job. It says something about our culture that we equate ‘doing nothing’ with ‘happiness’ and ‘stress free’. It says that we have put too much emphasis and importance on what we do, and the failure we achieve.

I wish I could be like this dog. I wish I could be like Fuzzy McAwesome, but I can’t. I’m me, and I’m trying hard to make that ok. I’m not striving for happiness or success, just being moderately tolerable. Others try so hard to be successful and happy, and here I am, trying so hard to just accept that it’s alright to be ok, to just exist and be fine with that. This existential dread is crippling, and if I could just one day be ok enough to BE OK ENOUGH, then that’s success to me.

Is this dog radical? Absolutely.

Do I want to be this dog? Not at all.

As much as I hate myself, and as much depression as I have to deal with, I’m happy I’m me, because simply being me gives me something to work on. I’m working on myself. I’m working on bettering myself, and hopefully one day, being ok with being me. I’ll get there too. I at least have enough confidence to believe that. That’s a start.

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