I've always had this running joke that my writing is only actually good if it's centered around a time I feel like shit.
In the last day I have reflected on myself so much that I've turned into some type of inward mirror that continuously fades into a greyness. There is only so much you can understand or try to solidify about yourself until there's not much of you left.
But the biggest most dreadful thing about this whole month is that I truly cannot stand to be alone. Just, to sit in a room with myself. It's like that Richard Siken quote from "Crush": “A man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river but then he’s still left with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away but then he’s still left with his hands.” Lately I don't know what to do with my hands and I can't find the right company in this river.
Shocker: it's a pretty horrifically disappointing way to go through life.
So, where is the exit?
I'm not really sure. I think it's too early to have any understanding of what this feels like after all the hurt is over with. It's just hurt right now.
I've been in therapy for a while and sometimes it feels like those sessions end on repeated conclusions. Yes, I will love myself more. Yes, I will learn to live in a medium space. Yes, I will not allow ruminations to dominate my reality. Okay, great. I still feel like This.
I feel like this type of healing, when you've grown up believing that there is something fundamentally wrong with you-- that the personal suffering you experience is unfathomable to the general population-- is so hard to understand even to yourself. You have lived in this constant state of turmoil where when you are asked to make peace with it it's like-- what do you mean make peace? This is me.
I've associated this specific type of suffering as a defining characteristic of myself for a bit now. At least, until therapy. The suffering and I were the best of friends. This felt like comfort.
And then you get a little taste of what comfort actually is, and it scares you to death. Sometimes you get to keep that comfort and sometimes you don't, but either way it kind of shatters this perception of yourself that you've normalized for so long.
This is about that perception. And getting away from it.
So basically, it's about getting to know yourself.
I used to think I knew myself really well because I'd talk to myself a lot. Especially when my morning commute to my classes was like 45 minutes on average, I had a lot to say and ample time to say it. But sometimes I'm only talking to one version of myself, not the array of faces that are all me.
That's my first point: multiplicity.
Are you really aware how much of you there is?
Because I sure as hell wasn't. It kind of turns out that yes, there's this genuine you, but there's also a lot of different reactionary versions of you that have a tendency to push that genuine one into a dark corner. Sometimes it's out of fear, to protect your genuine self from the scary monsters of the real world.
When I learned that, I personally got really pissed off.
What do you mean I can't be myself because these irrational parts of me thought they knew best? Reflection and more reflection just told me they know nothing. They act out of fear and stop me from experiencing anything worthwhile.
Not really. I mean, yes. But hold on.
You also have to understand that these selves were born for a reason. The fear they act out of was once (and still may be) tangible and hurtful. It is still very real to them, and therefore to you. I can't hate myself for wanting me to be safe. I'm thankful. I've been safe. But there are some parts of life that require me to skin my knees. It's a matter of finding their purpose, feeling down to that root and thanking them. You did good, you've done good.
But, you don't have to be good forever. You don't have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles repenting. There is a soft animal inside you deeply yearning for the opportunity to experience a very profound love. Very deeply inside you must be moved by how lucky you are to experience the victories and the horrors of your own humanity. And if you aren't, I think you need to learn. We're learning together, all the time.
My second point is the difference between awareness and active acknowledgement.
I've been the type of person to be hyper-vigilant about myself. I intellectualize my emotions to an obsessive extent in order to find an answer that satisfies me. This feels like emotional maturity, but it's really not. What do you do with all that knowing besides feel isolated in it?
Active acknowledgement is more like what I just touched on. See this trait in yourself, see how your reaction feels-- but really feel it. Like, actually sit in that uncomfortable place all alone for a minute. Two minutes. However long it takes to become friends with it. Because as much as it hurts, it's also an equal part of you. It's a part that needs something. You're not solving a problem within yourself-- you're learning to provide yourself with comforts that honor your human-ness. It is so normal to suffer. Stop trying to close that container. It has a place on your nightstand.
And now the really hard part: putting it to practice.
I can say all these things really easily now because I'm sitting in bed with no particular feeling overwhelming me. Half an hour ago I was in complete disarray and maybe half an hour from now I'll do it again. Or I'll go to sleep.
My point is-- these things are so difficult in practice. Especially doing it alone. Right now, I'm learning how difficult it is to do so. But I'm also trying to be accepting that it isn't a one-and-done thing, it's a very agonizing and wonderful thing to grow into.
But you need to do it all the time. Like, all the damn time. You need to love yourself so viciously that to question it would be an act of blasphemy. You need to love yourself in small, habitual ways.
And it's going to feel really silly for a little bit. Especially if you're used to hating yourself in habitual ways. But embrace that foolishness, humor it. Kiss your reflection on the mirror if that's what it takes.
I can't tell you how to love yourself because I don't know you (actually, if you're reading this there's a high likelihood I do know you. In that case, hi!).
I don't think you get to know yourself until you learn to love yourself.
I think that's it. You need to imagine yourself falling in love with you. You get to be a part of this enlightening and wonderful and painful and uncomfortable ordeal of learning your idiosyncrasies-- and it will never end. You will be 70 years old and learn that you maybe actually do like salmon sushi and you want someone to kiss your nose before bed and you feel the most beautiful in blue lipstick. Or maybe you'll realize all those things tomorrow. You don't really get to decide.
Things will just happen to you. And sometimes it'll feel like the end of the world. It will feel like all you have are your own two hands and a river choking on your sadness. And then those two hands will be the ones holding you by the shoulders and leading you home. You won't know anything until it happens.
My only experience on this matter is being a nineteen-year-old girl. Right now, for me, that's enough.
I always want the best for you, whoever the hell you are.
Signed,
Mariam
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