Voices

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It’s been a while since I’ve written anything. I stopped writing for a while and then when I thought about writing in here again, I didn’t because I feared that I abandoned it too long to ever be able to return, which is a silly, odd thought. I recently remembered that I created this as my spot on the internet, my home, my place, where I can write about and post about anything I want, whenever I want. So, it’s time for me to come home, I suppose. I was hoping to sit outside and write, but I’ve ended up inside the art building due to the icon above (which, by the way, is a great representation of how I’m feeling. Oh well, I feel safe here. 

The last couple nights I have cried and cried. So much has happened to me in these past couple months. I’ve met beautiful humans and kissed wonderful men and stayed all night talking to funny people. I picked blackberries every week on the farm and pet the stray cats and moved out of my apartment and into a new one. I quit therapy, quit my doctor, tried to be me, got confused about who that was. Too often I have so many words to describe my identity despite the fact that I yearn for only one: human.

There have been moments I feel hated, and moments I’ve felt loved. People have told me wonderful things like “you’re one of the sweetest souls I’ve met,” or “you treat me like I imagine the love of my life would treat me.” People also mention terrible things, but often it’s by not mentioning anything at all that I feel truly hurt.

I am pushing and pushing to continue existing in this human world despite a fog that presses the insides of my brain. It tells me to stop, to sleep, to just give up. In fact, lately, I feel like I trust that fog and agree with it. I do want to give up, I do want to sleep all day, but still, I’m not doing that. I’m not killing myself. Why is this? I’m not quite sure. Voices inside my head holding me back. 

There are so many voices in my head and they drive me mad. Sometimes all I want to do is sleep, other days I want to paint for the rest of my life. There’s never a part of me that truly wants to do the things that I actually do—go to class, get work done, help others, lead projects, volunteer, eat, etc. But I do it anyway, because something pulls me toward it. It’s a sense of duty and obligation bigger than myself.

I think I’m destined for greatness, but I’m unsure of it.

The people that see me couldn’t imagine I’m on the verge of tears constantly, although I do know it shows sometimes. I just excuse myself and write it off as being an introvert. Although,  I am less than quiet about it all. I admit to people who ask me if I’m okay that I’ve been feeling anxious, or nervous…but do they really get it? Do the realize the turmoil that is shaking me and terrifying me at the core?

I have somewhere to be other than on this page.

____________

PostScript

I’ve been really into a video made by the great Lily Singh aka iisuperwomanii that goes by the same title of this post. Link here

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