may 6, 2020

do you ever face a part of yourself that unsettles you so much you don’t know what to do with it? it feels like everything i’ve been drawn to this past week—old movies, tv shows, books—has been trying to show me something i had hidden away a long time ago.

at some point in my life, i realized that being myself wasn’t good enough, so i spent years adopting the personalities of fictional characters instead. i wrapped their stories around me like a blanket that would conceal me from the eyes of a world that didn’t want me. being completely hidden meant i was safe, but it also meant i was in a type of dark that malnourished me from cultivating my own identity.

i feel a lot of shame about this. it’s an admission of fraud. immediately i wonder, does saying this out loud invalidate over a decade of my life? each fictional narrative that cracks off of me, because those blankets have definitely calcified over, reveals an ever decreasing assurance that what is underneath will be well-received. i want to cover it all up again with a mass appeal proven by infinite entertainment ratings.

but that is a misconnection of how identity works, made years ago during unguided developmental stages. even now, writing this, i’m instinctually afraid of how i will be perceived. the fact is, i have it all backwards. why am i waiting for someone else to approve my authenticity? FUCK THAT. i am the only one with that power.

i've faced a part of myself that has unsettled me so much, i don’t know what i’m going to do with it. but i'm going to start with forgiving myself.

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