Day 83, yosemite and imposter

Thursday, 2/21/2019

Drove to the “Yosemite” warehouse for a day of storing artifacts. Putting heavy objects (old servers, very heavy metal boxes) onto a pallet, strapping them down. Thought about how hard it is to spell pallet because of the confusion between

  • pallet, a small wooden platform for piling goods for shipment,
  • palate, the roof of one’s mouth
  • pallette, the flat piece of wood on which a painter mixes colors.

Trying to make a note, artifact number so-and-so moved to palla… palle… pala… shit! It’s really hard. One ell or two? Second vowel an a or an e? How many t’s?

In the morning, making plans for the day, I had an episode of something like, but not quite, imposter syndrome. I’ve had spells of this earlier, but this was the first time I thought about the sensation and tried to describe it. Basically I feel like I am faking my life. I see myself from outside, sort of, and feel a sort of contempt for a commendable, but obviously flawed and ineffective, effort to act like a real person.

This is new to widower-hood, I’m sure. When I was part of a couple, there was the constant agreement and validation that what we were doing was right for us, appropriate, sensible. I mentioned on one of the very early days that I missed the frequent little verbal validations we gave each other; but here I am missing something deeper and more subtle. It’s the implicit, unverbalized, confidence that what “we” are doing, the course “we” are charting, while it may be difficult, may not be as we’d ideally like it to be, is still correct, inevitable, impeccable, and would be approved-of by anyone else who really understood our situation.

Now, while there are times I feel quite correct, and even times when I positively enjoy the new possibilities, the loss of old constraints; but there are also times like this morning, where for a while I get a sinking doubt in my rightness, a sensation that I’m clearly faking it and could be called out as a failure and mocked at any moment. Not a sensation based in reality, and it isn’t crippling or even very bothersome. But I thought I should write it up as one more effect of bereavement.

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