My life has always been fraught, stretched thin – me holding on for dear life. Often I sense I am squeezing all the joy out of every tiny moment, so fixated on being one with myself and the Universe. Sometimes I can’t get out of my own way. I want so desperately to live a full and content life.
I beg the Universe for guidance. I follow the phases of the moon, read my horoscope, diagnose my own personality disorders. All with the hope of understanding and bettering who I am.
Someone once describe me as being tightly coiled like a spring – like one day I might finally snap. I don’t feel like someone who might go on a shooting rampage. But then the older I get the less I feel I know about myself.
I try to be chill. But even when I’m listening to music (which I’ve only recently given myself permission to do again) or reading a book, I worry that I’m just escaping, disappearing so I don’t have to face the reality of my reality.
I’m stuck between eternal navel gazing and tapping out of my own life.
I can’t seem to find a balance.
As a child I learnt that feelings and expressing them were an inconvenience. They made other people uncomfortable.
So instead I turned my discomfort into actions.
I became a human doing.