I can’t even write straight. The thoughts in my head are cloudy. I can see their form but the edges are soft. Blurred.
How can you begin to make sense of something that isn’t distinct in shape?
I feel the need to reinvent myself. To take my power back and seize control over my body. How I dress it. How I nourish it. How I move it.
To what end? I don’t know.
I just need it to be new. Better. Different.
I feel like I’m here in this place every so often. I get uncomfortable in my body and frustrated with my brain. I become increasingly obsessive about the purpose behind what I’m doing and the aesthetics of my choices. Nothing is good enough.
I think it’s connected to depression and the idea that if I could just think my way out of whatever this is into something more awe-inspiring I would be happier. As if a cooler, more desirable version of myself would at last placate my discomfort and ground me in conviction and purpose.
Every so often I return to this idea of myself as a hologram. Living between two worlds, neither fully in nor fully out of either. Desperate to be immersed in one but not willing to let go of the other. I don’t think it’s a question of commitment — just the paralysing nature of a lack of clarity.
I know I’m not here by accident. That outside of the decisions I have made that have lead me to this moment — whether they were made with a sense of purpose in mind or not — there were a number of happy circumstances and downright miracles that blessed me for a reason. I know that.
But because I don’t know why, because I can’t see where this is all headed, I just can’t stop trying to control it. And it’s the desire for control that keeps me clutching at things I cannot hold, thinking in circles to explain what I can’t fully understand. Reinventing myself into something that is neither better nor worse, but almost certainly not entirely me.
I want to shake my brain like a piggy bank and count up all of the things that spill out. I feel like I need to see them all laid out before me to have any chance at mapping the pattern, seeing the bigger picture, finding some semblance of purpose.
If I could just see it all at once… if I could just know what it all adds up to, maybe then I could accept it.
That’s what I like to tell myself. Because the fact that self-acceptance could be achieved with anything less than perfect information feels impossible to me.