I’ve said this line multiple times over the last few months. I’ve said it to my partner. I’ve said it to friends. In fervent anxiety, I’ve said this to my therapist in an attempt to explain the depth of my feelings about why I tend to withhold many of the things that happen in my life. I sit in a rotation of feelings that, summarized, say that I am not enough, which is standard enough for any person, anxiety or no. Those feelings; however, are not what’s stopping me from being more open with the going-ons of my life.
The feeling that bubbles up the most is the idea that each choice I’ve made in my journey through this blanket of space and time has been, and will be defined by another aspect of my makeup. I hesitate, because I don’t want to be perceived. I just want to be seen.
The easiest way to digest what I’m trying to say is like this: when people say, “Please do not judge me when I make bad decisions. Please do not think of me differently.”, I want the same energy for all my decisions. Please see me for what I choose, but don’t perceive the way I do it, the how I do it, the why I do it. I don’t want to be connected in the same way as the idea that atoms only change once they have been interacted with.
Aren’t we all tired of hearing, “Here’s what [this thing you chose] says about you.” by now? I’m tired. I’m overwhelmed. I feel like dough being run through the pasta maker. Suddenly, I am forced to be something. The same, but different. I’m still trying to be comfortable taking up the space I am given right to in this world. I’m still working through my rotation of enough-ness feelings that having to then process this new piece of information that other people have somehow figured out about me. How is it that I am a fully formed person in so many of my loved ones’ heads when I know for sure I’m still just trying to figure it out?
It feels vaguely like a chicken and egg situation – the less I share, the more the people around me form a perception of me that doesn’t align with what I think of myself. The larger that gap becomes, the less I want to share. Even now as I write this, I’ve deleted and rewritten paragraphs of rumination, when this blog isn’t meant to be the kind where you’ll find any sort of conclusions. “Let’s not take ourselves so seriously.”
I know this is a simple case of, “Who gives a shit what other people think?”. I know. Anxiety knows. Anxiety also asks you multiple times if you locked the door when you left, when you know you did. I don’t need to know that my love language as an adult relates to my trauma as a child, or that my hobbies now are a way to rebel against any problematic cultural norms – god, please don’t even tell me about how my purchases soothe my inner child.
Please do not put those thoughts into the Universe, because I know it listens, and it’s going to throw shit my way when I’m not even done processing the last episode. I’m not ready. I know I’m not ready. I just want to be able to pick my interests without wondering who it wants me to be. Aren’t we supposed to be picking hobbies, not the other way around?
See me. See the effort I put in. See the things I make. See the feelings I feel. But don’t worry about what that all means. I’ll figure it out, so please write your review until after the credits. You may very well be right, but I’m tired. I’m still halfway through Season 2; let me catch up.
Interesting things of the week:
- I’m trying to knit a raglan sweater by following this tutorial
- I tried an at-home DIY lash extension kit and it’s pretty neat!
- I’ve been slowly comfort listen-watching this episodes review of Spongebob
Leave a Reply