I just Google'd "inecurity." Seriously. I actually went to a search engine, entered the word "insecurity" and hit "search."
Who does that? Oh, wait, that's right - me. Ugh.
See, I have this itty-bitty, little problem. And right now, The Fiance just spit whatever soda he's drinking right out of his mouth (and all over his monitor) and choked, "Little?! Did she just say little problem?!"
Yeah. It's that "little."
I don't really know where it stems from, to be quite honest. According to my Google search, it could mean I was raised without enough praise, never received guidance, experienced a major "failure" (in quotes) in life, or lived in a volatile environment. Uh, no. No. "No" and no.
My Google search also suggested performing self-love meditation. "Feel the love, all the way to your toes." OK, what? Really? No.
It also said I can have problems developing healthy, long-lasting relationships. Shit. Get passed over for promotions. Dammit. Be over-controlled emotionally. Sigh. But, then again, it also said I may become a candidate for paranoia and think "others" are out to get me.
Point is, WHAT THE HELL? How does one get over this problem? It's really quite debillitating. I lose sleep, literally. I cry. I pick arguments. (Right now, you're all thinking, "Wow, she's quite the model fiancee. I'm jealous.")
But it's not like I do this because it's fun. Good grief, it's mostly opposite of fun. I hate the way it feels. I feel like I'm standing outside of my body, watching myself pick fights, wanting desperately to (do The Fiance a favor and) punch myself in the face. You know, I'd let him punch me in the face, but Dad likely won't approve of his youngest marrying a man who beats her. So, crap.
And before you all get all, "Quit being a baby, get over it, trust him" on me, shut up. It's not about a lack of trust. The first thing that pops into my mind is not, "Oh, gosh, he's going to cheat on me," it's "Oh, gosh, why me? When there's so many other (better?) options?" And then my mind completely unravels from that point, until I'm reduced to a blathering idiot.
Like, now. For example.
Let it just be stated here that I hate it. And I apologize for it. And if I could pay money, take a pill, receive injections, give up my first-born child to alien men from Jupiter, sit in a room full of butterflies and loud chewers, just to get over it, I would.