I’m not at all in-tune with what my gut actually wants and craves, whether that be to indulge in something sweet or something more complex.
I’m of the mindset that everything happens for a reason, with the caveat of: if you search hard enough for that reason. So, I’ve been digging relentlessly to try to find one, looking inside myself with the hope that I’ll figure out what this little life hiccup wants to tell me/what I can learn. I’m realizing, instead, that I might just have to succumb to the reality that these epiphanies rarely happen right away.
I’m not sure what convened the other day to tear the disordered gauze from my eyes, but, on an impromptu shopping trip, I managed to see myself in a more realistic light. And, in that light, I saw a sexless, hollow creature with nothing to grab at or touch, someone who looked like she was once again becoming a shell of herself.
On Sunday I Instagrammed a cry for help in the form of a drab coconut popsicle, the sad caption reading: my only friend. This dramatic statement is far from the truth, but in that moment, as everyone in NYC appeared deeply invested in something called the World Cup with their pals, and I sat alone in my apartment clogged with snot and overwhelming angst, it felt true.
Food is our first experience of love and comfort—quite literally, as we immediately bond with our mothers via breastfeeding or the like. I was once fully capable of feeding myself in a ‘normal’ manner, but then somewhere along the way I started to see myself as less deserving of that nourishment—which is to say, less deserving of love.
“Write normcore on a post it note and have someone shit on it. Call it art.” Sorry if you’ve been holding your breath, but my self-directed-real-talk is BACK, and it’s pretty extensive to make up for lost time.
I think it is common for teens to want to push their damages under the rug, hoping that they’ll disappear. As I’ve grown older I’ve learnt that the most interesting, well-rounded people tend to pull them out, stare them boldly in the face, and, eventually, move on.
When English teacher David McCullough, Jr. told a graduating high school class they they weren’t special, his speech went viral. I stumbled upon it again and was reminded of its brilliance, so wanted to share in case any of you missed it.
Say what you will about the internet, but sometimes, when it’s 2:33 AM and you can’t sleep, and all of your thoughts are a tangled, contradictory mess…you stumble upon a stranger’s writing and it THRILLS you.