I’ve been in a bubble.
It’s quiet there and my thoughts come and go.
Not bad. Not good. Just flowing through me.
Without judgement I’ve learnt about fear.
Fear inside me, fear of perfection and my inability to find it, has created a deep dark pit.
It’s a bottomless pit that I’ve filled with self loathing. Everyday, spooning a little more in until the blackness reaches the top.
The hole is so full. And so now I’m spooning that hate out into the world. A little dollop for you. Plop plop plop. I hate myself. Let me show you how hateful I can be.
Everyday I pray for change. I pray I can hold on to the understanding.
I pray I can pull myself out of the depths.
I don’t belong there.
A bunch of stuff has happened to me in my life.
But the things I did, I did.
There’s no palming it off onto upbringing or environment.
It was all me. I just didn’t know.
I didn’t know I was the person I was.
I’m trying to be kind to myself.
I’m a good person, but am I?
Sometimes I don’t care about other people’s shit.
But sometimes I really do.
I don’t steal or lie or hit.
But maybe one day I could.
Maybe one day I will lose it and lash out.
And then all the goodness will come undone.
What do good people do?
Do they give to charity? Help old ladies across the street?
Do they knit scarves for homeless hamsters?
How many lives am I expected to live, to be able to fit in all the things I’m supposed to be doing?
There’s not enough time. There never seems to be enough.
I’m running out.
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.