Inner Child. In...(errr)...security.

The formative years are a BITCH.

Happy Fourth of July you little revolutionaries, you. This is the day fireworks go boom boom. The day we celebrate throwing the British Crown into the dumpster. The day we celebrate becoming the dumpster ourself. What a CELEBRATION.

200 years of freedom! Freedom to be worked tirelessly, freedom to be told what we can and cannot do, and freedom to worship the 1% (or else!).

Wow! Hell ya, Murica!

Me and Sunna

I promise this won’t be a political post — but I do want to acknowledge that no matter how good this country can be to many, this country has many flaws and we’re living in a very insecure moment in US history.

Doom: will Democracy collapse?

Gloom: Maybe. Probably — what one hasn’t? Have we already? I don’t know.

Hope: Humans will live on regardless. There will be good in the world regardless. People will always be moving forward. My brother once said he doesn’t care if he’s sad, because he knows he wouldn’t appreciate happiness if he didn’t have the experience of being down. He put it less eloquently but you get the idea.

And that’s stuck with me for a long, long time. That’s how I’m choosing to think about this current political landscape as we celebrate the 4th of July.

I choose to recognize that this is a pretty tumultuous time for many (I recognize my privilege of being a white, straight, male and being mostly sheltered from political/socioeconomical changes) but also recognize there are also many who are continuing to fight for positive social change rather than take decadal steps backward.

For many, this causes anxiety. For many this causes insecurity. For many — this causes a state of paralysis. And that’s what I want to talk about today.

It will be a vulnerable post. A semi-sad read. But I don’t want you to be sad.

I want you to realize that no matter how insecure you are, how confident you are, how anxious you are, how sad you are, how happy you are — you’re not alone.

If, at the very least, I’m here with you. I’ve always been here with you (If that doesn’t provide you some sort of comfort or community then welp fuck me I guess. My dad would say ‘guess I’m chopped liver’ and that’s exactly how I’d feel).

I’ve always felt insecurity, shyness, the hesitation to speak my mind. And I want to highlight my experience with this in hopes that those of you who are reading this can recognize you’re not alone.

I’ve already talked about Imposter Syndrome. But this takes it a step deeper.

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The Third Child.

I should be the chosen one, the prophesied perfect child. The one who comes to make his parents life easier. The one who learned from his older siblings. Right? Well I am, obviously. Clearly the favorite child (Mom, it’s okay you can admit it now. We’re all adults).

But growing up I felt as if I was the forgotten child. The one who always tagged along. I never felt that I had a say in what we were going to do, what I was going to do. I don’t think I necessarily minded it, but I also don’t believe it helped me develop a voice for myself.

It certainly didn’t help me develop a way to advocate for my wants and needs and in turn didn’t teach me my identity.

But it did teach me to listen very well. Listen to my parents, my siblings, my friends, authority, etc. I’ll always have that.

It was a joke amongst my older siblings that I was supposed to be a pool, the unexpected child. Dan… Ali… I wish we had a pool too. Sorry for not being a big body of water you could maybe drown in, Jesus. You’re welcome for protecting your livelihood.

I now know my mom considered me a blessing. I have a note from her that she wrote on the day I was born and gave it to me when I graduated high school. I still have that note and I cry every time I read it — I know I am loved, but that is not something I believe most kids realize the meaning of until they’re adults.

I attribute my childhood/young adult shyness and insecurities to this lack of confidence and lack of a voice. I do not blame my parents or family for it. But it is something I faced. And something I realized within the last 2-3 years.

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I Just Was.

When it came to growing up, interacting with others, sports, academics, etc — I never felt like I was confident enough to be ‘good’ at something. I was average. I was middle of the pack. I wasn’t given a foundation of excellence. I just was.

I was Dan’s/Ali’s younger brother to teachers or coaches. Something I think many other younger siblings can relate to.

I was the quiet kid. I was the good kid. I never spoke out. I generally had middle of the ground emotions. But when I did feel something I felt it strongly, perhaps a bit too much so — anger, sadness, happiness, discomfort.

I was never ‘Colin’. I was never known for who I was — but I also didn’t really have a strong sense of identity growing up. I don’t know that many do.

Even in high school when I believe I started to see glimpses of a ‘self,’ I was still striving to match or exceed my siblings’ accomplishments. I wasn’t setting any of my own goals. I wasn’t striving for myself. I was reaching to meet them where they were. Rather than figure out where I was.

I wasn’t comfortable in my body. I had size 10.5 feet in the fucking 5th grade and hands to match. I was 4 ft something. (Can someone say perfect clown?)

I still had my baby fat. I was bullied for it too. Donut boy was the go-to nickname from a select few.

I was even bullied because people thought I was gay. Like okay? Cool. Sure. No clue how that came to be (probably even created some sort of internalized homophobia that I’m quite glad to not have had progress further).

I was never outgoing. I had trouble with crushes. I had trouble making deep friendships like I do now. To this day — I am close with only a handful of folks I grew up with or went to high school with. And those folks I am eternally grateful for.

I believe it was because of a deep sense of insecurity.

In fact, I know that the root of my self confidence issues today stem from childhood. Especially as it relates to my love life, feeling included, or performance in jobs, hobbies, activities, or other.

I recall a moment in the 3rd grade that I was pulled over at recess by a girl I had a crush on. Out of no where she started singing U-G-L-Y by Daphne & Celeste to me with a whole ass dance routine.

I stood there. Paralyzed. Like what the fuck am I supposed to do? I’m 27 now. I still remember that (can someone say sad core memory from Inside Out vibes?). I laugh at it now because thatssssss wilddddddd. In the third grade? Performing to tell a kid you don’t think he’s cute? You’re doing the most hun — a simple note would suffice.

Disclaimer: in absolutely no circumstance do this.

I also think this sense of insecurity and lack of self confidence made me do some stupidddd shit for people.

I was a hard core people pleaser all the way through college. Every relationship I had in high school was specifically for the other person.

I was cheated on twice. I even stayed with one of them for a bit because I didn’t have the confidence to be like ‘fuck that, you’re a problem. I can do better.’ I didn’t know what better was.

(hint: It was always me. Choosing yourself is ALWAYS the better option when someone is making you choose between them and you.)

I didn’t know I had the option to leave (recall: I never made decisions for myself growing up. That was a skill I needed to learn which is a wild concept).

I always felt like I needed to include myself in plans, and never felt like I was automatically included.

I lived so incredibly in my head. I sometimes still do because that’s a safe place. That’s a place that brings these words to you. That’s a place I dream my wildest dreams. And they all come true.

But that was also a place of spirals. A place of uncertain self worth. That was, and can be still, a prison.

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Identity Doesn’t Equal Security.

In college, I really figured out what I didn’t like, more than what I did like — that came later. I had a deep sense of independence. I was figuring shit out. But I still felt a lot of social anxiety and internal pressure for acceptance.

I had deep commitment and self worth issues from being cheated on twice in high school. Formative years are a beiiiitchhhhhhh.

People pleasing was 100% still a thing. Hell, I reflect back and some of the shit I did was CRINGEEEEE (you can read that as I was an unproblematic nice guy persona — my god I would be so unsexy now if I didn’t have some sort of selfawareness).

I am absolutely not spilling that tea. I’m being vulnerable. You take what you get.

I was much more confident, on the surface. But internally my fears ran deep and I pushed it alllllllllllllll down. I really leaned into that fake-it-‘til-you-make-it philosophy but each failed crush, test, fraternity rush, major acceptance, or job application really reminded me that I ‘just was.’

Just wasn’t good enough. Likeable enough. Smart enough. Special enough. You name it.

I did the ‘manly’ thing and stuffed it down and brushed it off.

I was the personification of stoic confidence. Level headed. Charismatic. Unaffected. OR so was said by my employees, coworkers, or classmates.

Little. Did. They. Fucking. Know.

I was still insecure. I don’t know that anyone is not insecure. Even if they say they aren’t, I can’t help but believe that there is something that they fear most.

For me that has always been acceptance. That’s a broad statement. Acceptance in friendship, acceptance in love, acceptance in jobs, acceptance in life.

My biggest fear is not being accepted. That my identity — who I am at my core — isn’t going to be accepted by someone I want to be accepted by. It’s a fear tied deeply with control.

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But.

Here’s what I’ve learned. My insecurity, my fear of not being accepted, is because often times I don’t accept myself.

It’s that I’m not comfortable expressing that part of my identity — whatever it may be — because I fear this level of vulnerability will not be accepted. And I have NO control over that (the act of someone perceiving my identity… WOOF that’s scary as tits man. Jk boobs aren’t scary they’re wonderful) .

Hell — I don’t think I’ve even accepted that I’m insecure until recently.

Often — when I am not accepted by others it has LITTLE to do with me. It’s not something I can control. I suppose I could chameleon and bend myself to what others accept and expect. But that would be people pleasing and I broke that cycle when I ended my toxic relationship 3 years ago.

I’ve continued to work on accepting myself and showing it to the world.

This blog is a form of that. Publicly posting my poetry is a form of that. My fashion sense is a form of that. My sexuality is a form of that. My professional interest is a form of that. My creativity is a form of that. My laugh, my smile, my emotion, my love, my longing (YEARNNNNING) are forms of that.

I continue, year after year, to learn how to fully express myself. And little by little these insecurities have less and less hold on me. Not to say they’re not there. But I can give them a name. I can confront them. And I can navigate what that feeling looks like better and better each time.

I firmly believe in the power of identification. The power of naming something and showing that you know its there can scare even the strongest feelings away.

(shout out to my witchy hoes, y’all know what I’m talking about — except with like. Spirits or some shit)

I’ve been in an anxious state, an insecure state, for the last couple of months.

…..hey….

I recognize that. And its truly because I’ve not been expressing myself in the ways I need to. I’ve felt unaccepted in various areas of my life. In work. In love. In creativity. In NYC.

But — this was self doubt caused by not naming, not confronting, what was really going on.

I was ‘sheltering in place’ as they say. That place? My head.

What did I do? I unleashed these thoughts on you. I put pen to paper (fingers to keyboard? That’s weird. Technology is weird man).

I began to write. I began to express myself. I began to accept myself. And it helped. I began to tell people I was insecure. I began to tell people what was going on. I began to acknowledge, and be truthful, about my insecurities.

What happened was that I saw I was not alone. I saw that I was accepted.

I saw others — my closest friends, my work colleagues, my mentors, hook ups, those I respected — say they faced the exact same thing.

The power of that acknowledgement lifted a weight off my shoulders I didn’t know I was carrying. The freedom (shoutout Independence Day) that it allowed me felt uncomfortable but refreshing. It felt like therapy but in everyday life. It felt like a final understanding.

And that’s what I want to convey here.

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It’s not easy, but it’s worth it.

Having ‘the talk’ with yourself is worth it. Opening up and being vulnerable with those around you is worth it. It’s scary as fuck but it’s been, what I’ve learned, helps the most.

I don’t think this life is meant to be lived in your head. I don’t think this life is meant to be lived alone. I don’t think this life is meant for ‘unacceptance’.

IF you feel alone. Know that you’re not — and I am happy to be someone that you can reach out to. I know what that loneliness feels like. And I know what the feeling of being unaccepted does to someone.

That’s not to say that I won’t set boundaries, I’ve become pretty good at not taking someone else’s emotions onto myself. Been there done that. Not a great time.

But I will accept you, and I will do what I’ve always done best — listen.

I love y’all. I accept y’all. I see y’all. And I hear y’all. ANDDDDDDD I hope y’all have the best 4th of July you possibly can.

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Much luv,

colin scott mortemore

(bet some of u besties didn’t even know my middle name. fake bitches. we ain’t even friends are we?)

Also me and Sunna

Ps. if you’ve not checked out my poetry on Medium you should. A whole 75 other people like it and so should you. Click here for my deepest darkest secrets.

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LASTLY, A Special Surprise

(Mother shield your eyes)

Every holiday I have a tradition for my friends. A tradition I’ll now do for you. When we were all receiving these the times were simpler, happier, and hornier.

I present to you — 4th of July Copy Pasta. You’re welcome.

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