I am a lot of things.
I won’t list said “things” because I could be here all damn day hitting you with an epic “about me” essay, but obviously one of the main things I am is a shameless over-sharer. Let’s face it, I’m a fan of talking about myself and of my life- the good the bad the ugly. At times I question my ways, I lose my “writing mojo”, I become insecure and I stop writing altogether because I assume my content-choice comes off as boring, or annoying, or useless unless of course you’re in need of a great DIY tutorial on “How To Be a Hot Fucking Mess in Life”. Also I hate coming off as cocky even though I know it’s not because I’m self-centered or full of myself. I’m just a super-flawed, torn up, highlighted-all-over, bent-pages, broken-spine kind of open book when it comes to me and the reckless havoc-wreaking circus that is my mind.
I find myself fascinating ok? I admit it. But fascinating like some peculiar new species who’s behavior and character is so fucking off that scientists can’t quite figure out how to categorize it within the animal kingdom. You know. If anything, I don’t see myself the way others have claimed to see me.. I don’t see pretty. I don’t see smart. I don’t see talented. At least not as much as I should. Atleast not most days. Most days are dreadfully difficult in the department of “loving myself”. I don’t know how to take a compliment without looking down at the ground and getting immediately super uncomfortable and I’ve waited TEN YEARS to decide if I wanted a wedding of any kind, mostly because I don’t want people to watch me walk down an aisle and then I’m not sure what side I’ll be facing when we do our vows because if anyone takes pictures of my “bad side” (I hate my profile) I might just die. I can’t deal with people taking random, unprepared pictures of me because I’m not photogenic unless I’m in control of my selfie and I just don’t want to be the center of any kind of attention.
I’m my worst critic and I’m hard… I mean hard on myself. Sure, some days I wake up feeling skinny and my skin is crystal clear and I just feel badass and boss as fuck. But those are usually dark stormy days. Seriously, I thrive on dark stormy days…it’s become a pattern between the weather and my petty soul. Does this happen to anyone else in the world?! I guess when the rest of the world is down and out, I find the room to shine within myself. I know I sound like a psychopath. I know…
You wouldn’t believe how complicated I am internally and it’s exactly that which I find “fascinating” about myself – how internally complicated I am and the intricacy of how my brain is wired. All the while, finding ways to keep my external shit together so that I can at the very least, pretend to be able to function like a decent human being.
It’s hard work being me. Every damn day. It’s hard. I try to remind myself of the bigger picture, of the little things, of the simple things, of my kids and those who I know are here for me and love me. But the fact I’m almost 32 and I still haven’t figured myself out, tends to affect me in a deep, deep place that no one else can ever reach.
My behavior is so fucking confusing and erratic. My character is so fucking strange. My morals are all kinds of twisted. I don’t know how to describe myself anymore but back to that whole “new species of an animal” thing I’m basically a hyena on crack dressed as a flamingo and with an alter-ego of a tiger mixed with a hippo with a caffeine-only diet and an allergy to daylight and humans.
But I wonder. And I wonder if anyone else wonders. Is this what I’m supposed to do? Am I meant to try to figure myself out? Am I meant to put my life beneath this microscope slide in order to analyze and unravel what makes me, me? In the greater context of all things- is there time to spare in life to use for the purpose of finding or discovering myself? What’s the fucking point?
I feel like the last few years of my life have been about understanding myself and digging through my own rubble in search of answers to justify my choices, my experiences, my failures… in search of closure from a childhood that no-doubt scarred me and contributed in so many ways to who and what I’ve become. Essentially, a disaster coated with iridescent glitter and larger than life sunglasses.
And honestly, I don’t know that any of it matters anymore. I don’t know if there will ever be closure or justification or answers or resolutions because like…the damage is fucking done! I currently am who I am and I don’t know if there’s any sense in peeling the endless layers of an onion that will surely only bring more tears and unclarity. Ok I just called myself an onion. Now I know I’m a lost case.
I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to understand anything anymore. I don’t want answers to these unanswerable questions I’ve been dealing with since I was a little girl. I don’t want to know if I’m traumatized or if I’m bipolar or if I’m not well, anymore. I don’t want to know if I’m ever going to forgive myself for my mistakes or if I’m ever going to be able to make up for lost time or lost moments.
I’m fucking exhausted. Mentally, emotionally, spiritually- exhausted.
I just want to LET GO and LIVE. I want to rid myself of all the horrors that sometimes keep me up at night. I want to SILENCE the what if’s. I want to lay to REST the woulda-coulda-shouldas. I want to simply BE.
I want to BE ME. Whoever that may be. I just want to be. Every day. I want to freely, fully, literally, actually, fiercely- BE.
Happiest of Mondays, friends. May we all find the strength and the will, to BE.