being myself

I’ve come to realize that my whole life is made up of two things. Two things that I want to leave behind and move past, to throw out the window and watch them float away in the wind until they’re dust particles drifting into the sky. Two things that make me who I am, that define me without asking if that’s okay with me, that just take over for me without a warning. I am made up of these conflicting things, of wanting to be happy, and wanting others to be happy. I cannot exist with these things in tandem. They cannot exist at the same time, ice and fire, day and night. So if I am these things, all at once, do I exist? No. And that’s why I am finally standing at the crossroads deciding to pick a side. I’ve been here before, and maybe I’ll be here again, but progress is not linear and I’ve come to know this well. I want to be happy. I live every waking moment doing things to make others happy. I pick and choose my every move, my every word, everything I wear, to make sure other people are happy. To make sure I am comfortable to other people, not that I am comfortable with myself. I want others to like me so badly, that I have completely lost myself. The thought of self expression and discovery should be exciting, but it feels like dying to me. Because in those moments of feeling like I have found myself, I see the shame of those I love burning any self love I have away. I love others so deeply, but I put up with people who don’t love me deeply in return. I give all my energy to people who could turn a cold shoulder to me in an instant all because of who I truly am. And I am tired of living in fear of losing these people, I am going to put myself first and whoever wants to stick around are the people I should put all that energy into instead. I have been told horrible things by people I still hold so highly, and I don’t know why. I deserve to be respected and I deserve to be happy whether I believe that or not, I am going to learn to believe that. I want to let go of things that cling to me, things like high school art teachers telling me I’ll never amount to anything, things like parents wondering where they went wrong with me, things that feed off of my brain every waking moment. Things that don’t matter. I have given up so much of myself due to words that others don’t even remember saying. I have given up things that make me happy, make me who I am, because of people who are unhappy. I can no longer go on like this, no matter how comfortable this grave I’ve dug for myself has become, how safe I feel here in the shadows, walking this life like a corpse reanimated— I can’t do it anymore. I cannot live in comfortability. I have to be uncomfortable and make others uncomfortable until the new home I built myself actually feels like home. I have lived inauthentically and I have lived as many people, I have been the person my parents want me to be, I have been the person I believed people would be attracted to, I have been the person I believed people would never question. I have barely ever been myself.