Every age has given me a deep sense of grief in some ways. I remember turning 13 and thinking that there was some sort of defined sense of maturity that I had to embody. It was the faux sophistication that ruined my teenage years. Of course, don’t all teenagers believe they know it all? Then there was when I turned 18. Suddenly, I wanted to be more open and vulgar, honest, and openly sexual without a sense of regret. Again, still being a teenager I felt at though this was what I was supposed to do, but still thought it made me special because I was the only one who felt strong enough to do so. Without too much digression, my sense of open honesty and shameless sexual liberation made me remarkable to certain people, and others for other reason. Then I was 20, feeling less accomplished than my other friends because I began college late and still don’t know my “meaning”. It was stupid to feel this way, looking back on it. Sadly, I’m 25 now. Twenty-five years old and feeling was less accomplished than 13, 18, 20, and even 24 year old me. Though .. that’s not all true.
There are only about 20+ posts on my blog and I feel as though that 70% of them include the words Fight Club. Most of them mention my love for it, or how great it was for me, or just how much I consider it to be a literary masterpiece. The things is, for a very long time I haven’t been able to properly articulate why and how it affected me. I say it’s Fight Club, but it’s a lot more than that.
I remember when the film premiered in the late 90s, when it came to HBO and all I understood was that there was some fighting and the name was carved into pink soap. This was before I was deeply in love with Brad Pitt and had to see all his films. This was also the time that my idea of a great film to occupy me was Spice World or Rugrats Go To Paris. I still had youth left in me, and with that in mind, I didn’t honestly have the attention span or intelligence for this movie.
In a way, I still don’t.
Every single year that comes around, there’s this dying need for humans to make a list of things they’d usually reserve for a bucket list and then try ti achieve it in a year. I was that human. Join the gym, lose weight, eat healthier, travel more, read more, watch more movies. Except those are quite hard to do with such a flat description. I’ve struggled to figure out of goals and resolutions are one in the same and truthfully, I’m making them different. This year, there’s no list of bullet points of things I want to do, there’s an in-depth list of things that I am going to work on and hopefully soon say I’ve accomplished. So, what’re my goals this year?
The day goes by in a lull. Between my ears are the static of a television not turned on. I’m not here, so if you could so kindly leave a message, I promise to get back to you eventually, soon, at some point in the near future, maybe never. This is what happens when I’m a shell of existence and I can’t find a way to associate to anything or anyone, including myself. This is what happens when I begin to disassociate.
It’s not often that I find myself staring at my skin and tugging at my strands of hair saying this isn’t me. There’s different episodes of this out-of-body phenomenon. Sometimes this isn’t me. Sometimes I’m trapped inside this vessel of self-destruction and self-harm in need of constant validation. Most of the times it’s reading over the words I share on social media, primarily Twitter, and seeing how little I relate to the speaker, myself. A lot of the time, I just don’t feel a thing.
It’s more than not feeling like myself. It’s more than looking at my actions and standing there baffled as I work through the chaos to see me, or a figment of myself in the debris. It’s the admission of my mistakes that send me spiraling into an identity crisis of not knowing this person I’m forced to call me. Sometimes it’s the words of my father belittling me in the jokingly way he tends to do that makes me look at myself as a shadow of … someone.
The truth is that this is only me. This is the only me I ever am but I feel like sometimes who is making for attention and sometimes even hiding behind her anxious tendency to hide from every human being isnt always what I can call myself. More than often it’s deeper. Deeper than this identity scare to where I wake up not feeling the pain that constantly explode within my nerves. There is nothing. Staring at television without wonder or care, looking into the eyes of my daughter who looks nothing like me and not wondering about her opinions of me.
Feeling nothing scares me the most.
I’m the child of addiction. I was not made through addiction rather than being raised in it. What haunts me about their disease is that in the midst of feeling nothing, their disease could easily become my own. Their addiction to feeling good and feeling everything may become a desire. One day I may want to feel the sensational tingle in my nose of the rolling euphoria that comes with the first puff. The good this is I can’t afford their addiction, I can’t afford their disease but I can afford to eat. So maybe the satisfaction comes from a different kind of high.
What scares me more is that one day I may realize that I’ll never be my “self”. I very well may never be the image of this self that has never been. The realization that never being me, being whole, being who I am proud of and always sure of terrifies me because I may deny myself the chance to do so. Sure, I’ve prided myself on being stubborn about forcing the foot to kick the bucket, but it’s forever a fear. I can’t leave this world without giving myself a chance.
There’s a prayer of sorts that I tuck deep into the pockets of my soul. One day I won’t be riddled by the diseases I can no longer see. One day all of this sadness and anger and tired and lost will no longer drag me down to the darkness in which I’ve lived for more than half my life. I pray, to who listens, that I find myself within myself and one day smile at her. I pray, to whoever I have pleased in my days, that I won’t be cured but that I be well.
One day I’ll see myself as I’m supposed to.
I don’t think I have any more apologies residing within me. This requires me to start from the top: I didn’t grow up knowing that my womanhood would always be resorted to my abundance of emotions. There were so many things in the world that were never my own doing but I felt responsible for. What was harder to deal with was that growing up I was always blamed for being so apologetic and sad because of my unstable emotional state. I would ask my grandmother how she would deal with these feelings of, say, rejection or not feeling good enough for saying something that inadvertently hurt someone’s feelings. Her answer was always the same, and still is as I’m older, which was, “Shit happens.”