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I Cannot Put My Finger On It
The frustration rises, like bile
To fill my chest
I feel a knot in my stomach
A pit of vipers writhing.
The eyes are watching my every move
As I feel I can’t do right
For doing wrong.
I can’t put my finger on it
Yet I know it’s not real.
I know in my logical mind
That I am worthy, I am just,
A work horse well-laden with responsibilities.
Still plays the stuck 78
In the back of my head
‘They will find you out’
‘They will see you as you are’.
Extremities ache with fear,
The constant need to move
Before the pain returns,
To sharpen my anxiety
To mock me.
I can’t put my finger on it
But the feeling remains
Imposter syndrome doesn’t even cover it
How each action fells
As negative as the depths
Of an Antarctic winter.
Nausea waves, my feet crippled
Their need to move
Yet wracked with debilitation.
Why do I feel this guilt
This vomit inducing
Tear rendering guilt
That one day they will see me
Just as I am.
Realise I’m not who they thought I was.
I have been hiding in plain sight.
A spectre at the feast.
For now I have to carry on,
Pushing through
Worker harder than ever
But feeling retrograde motion.
This is true anxiety,
The unfounded,
The unjustified
The undefinable
I just can’t put my finger on it.
Copyright ©
Emma Goodridge-Hobson
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