Letting it all go. (P.S. I didn't proofread any of this 😰)

I am trying to be better. I am trying to hard to be better. To do better. I am trying. I am working hard. I am working so, so, hard. I wake up every morning knowing that I'm at some point in the day going to absolutely fucking hate myself, if I don't already by the time I wake up. In that same breath, however, I do know that I am learning, growing, trying, and willing to change. I know that progress takes time, and that it can be cruel. The true difficulty comes from the truth that nobody can make me feel as terrible as I can make myself feel. No words can come close to cutting as deep as the words I cut into myself*. The world tells me "your hair is messy", and I could leave it at that. A fact, an observation. But although I hear the words, and can take them at face-value, and they wouldn't really hurt... I tell myself that THEY think that I am a slob. That THEY think I am worthless, and that they are RIGHT because I am. It's that f××king fortune telling, mind reading, self-fulfilling prophecy shit. I need to get out of my own head. But whether I like it or not, no matter how much I can disassociate: my body, my self, my mind. The truth is that I am stuck in this brain no matter what. This brain controls these fingers that are typing. This brain decides what I do and don't say aloud. This brain, is the closest anybody ever get to me, to closest to truly knowing me. The closest to being one with me. This brain decides who can get in, though if I relate my mind to a farm... People I don't know, they are outside of the fence. The long, large fence that stretches acres and acres to establish a perimeter. Through friendly interactions with strangers, it's like they have found the front gate to this fence, perhaps where my mailbox is. But I do not let them in. My casual friends, coworkers, etc., they are allowed into gate. They can roam around the vast farmland, through the grass, and most dare not traverse their way to the doorstep of the house, if they can even find it. Those closer to me, they may stand on the porch of my home. Maybe rock a bit in the bench-swing I have, or the rocking chairs; they can enjoy the view. Closer than that, are a very small sum of people. I allow them into my home. But only the downstairs. The second story is completely off limits to anyone. It's full of hoarding, dirty laundry, secrets, unmentionable, inexplainable things. Things nobody would or could understand. That is why I only let those select, few people, into the downstairs of my home.

Now, every once in a while... There may come a time, where my guard is down, where I don't feel judged, or shamed, maybe I even feel understood; and it is in these instances where I will let someone up the stairs. Give them a guided tour of sorts. Sure, I don't have to show them every room, or any at all. This person is just lucky to get to be with me at all. To even be on my farm.

I'm good at keeping the farm running, keeping the downstairs tidy for guests, keeping my crops alive, and my animals well fed. But I live in the attic. Every day I have to wake up in my own mess, but I put on a brave face, and perform. I perform for everyone. I make sure that they all have a space in my life.

At least I try to.

My point of this analogy, is that no matter what. I will always. Always. Always. No matter what. I will always sleep in the attic. I will always have this disastrous second-story. For that is my mind. That is my brain. That is any and everything truly meaningful about me. That is how I think. Motherfucker that is how I  t h i n k. Any and every thought that I have had, or ever will have, will occur here. Anything anyone has ever said, or will ever say, any song or sound or texture or scent, every word. Everything will all be processed and stored here. I cannot change who I am, well- I can. But I cannot change the past. I cannot erase what has happened to me, or what someone has said to me, or something I have felt before. 

But I can change how I react.

I can change how I respond.

I can change my future.

I don't want to be trapped here anymore. 

I want to organize the upstairs, not to throw anything away (besides obvious trash), but to just... organize it. Put all of my shit into boxes. Make sure that my 2013 baggage isn't interfering with a simple text message I've received in 2023.

I am trying to be better.

I will do better.

I want to be better.

*metaphorically

This was originally just me venting into my Windows Notepad, as I sit here at the library. But I feel like sharing. I hope to all, if any, of you that are reading this, I hope that you are finding peace within yourself. I wish you all safety, love, and happiness. I wish you all the best.