About a week ago, I sat down and wrote a post. A shouty, ranty, pissed off kind of post.
But this isn’t it.
I felt like I had my reasons for being shouty and ranty. It’s been a tough few months. In fact, I’d go as far as to say it’s been a shitty few months. Really shitty. So shitty, in fact, that I finally had enough, and, with Limp Bizkit’s ‘Break Stuff’ blaring in the background, let rip in my journal. A proper spleen-venting session, releasing months of pent-up anger, frustration and disappointment.
And, as my spleen vented, and my fingers pounded the keys, the irony of having spent that day launching a new programme about managing your self-talk – mastering your inner voice so that your negative soundtrack stays firmly in its box – was not lost on me. Nor was the hypocrisy.
But, no matter how ironic, or hypocritical, the battle I was having with my self-talk undoubtedly was, I could not shake the soundtrack blaring in my mind.
A soundtrack that told me I was a failure.