Seeing myself has become strange recently, and that strangeness keeps me from executing series ideas I was excited for.
Ghosts swirl within my chest down to my stomach with each glance at myself — mirrors, cameras, recent selfies next to old ones. Since childhood, I’ve known the waltz between self-love and self-hatred, long strides alternating along the floor.
This time, though, feels…different.
The last year and a half is the craziest year and a half I’ve had in my entire life. I’ve bounced and am still bouncing between three states multiple times attempting to plant my roots. I’ve gone through two breakups (both civil and messy/scary). I lost the physical presence of pets and old friends and got thrown to the wolves to make new friends.
Not only have I survived it all — I’ve changed beyond recognition as my self-perception lags behind.
I’ll get the superficial observation out of the way first; I physically see life’s ups and downs in my body. (I don’t necessarily enjoy it.) My size isn’t vastly different. I do still find cute clothes and want to wear them…that is, until I look in the mirror.
Sometimes my reflection is someone cutely round out of Rollie Pollie Ollie or a babe with flushed, chubby cheeks. Sometimes it more resembles Shamu crashing through life the way the real Shamu miserably crashes through tank water. My brain’s tickled by reel ideas and photo gallery ideas to show my love of clothes and looking cute, yet I do nothing. The thought of viewing myself on-screen, further warped by screens and glass, burns a pit in my stomach.
The greatest and toughest changes, though, lie under the surface.
While I remain sensitive at heart, a jaded fingernail tore an opening not easily patched. Suspicion and fear tangle with love and my old yearning for acceptance/belonging. My muscles tighten with human touch. I communicate with friends in isolation through screens and microphones, wrapped in a blanket burrito when I’m not working.
Despite trauma shrinking my sense of safety, much else has grown to balance that out.
For the first time, I feel a backbone under my skin. Injustices and mistreatment no longer slide down boneless curvature. My new spine holds me upright as life’s waves ebb, flow, and crash. Granules of new and old sand enmesh to create my new shoreline, gritty and soft simultaneously.
I’ve proven time and time again that I overcome life’s hardships even when my knees give out before the end. My anxiety response shifted from flight to fight, fawn to fix. Despite how stupid and incapable my brain illustrates me, I take flame to its images with every step climbed and every obstacle overcome.
I’ve found I’m pretty damn likable as the person I’m becoming. New roommate tours turned into hour-and-a-half sit-downs full of laughter. I rediscovered an old Discord community and found new (New England!) friends within it. Bumble BFF introduced me to the three friends I have here in Rhode Island. And the engagement and view uptick on this blog shows people value my voice and personality.
Objectively, I am proud of myself. But I know myself even less than before because of all this change.
Depression and anxiety have scrambled my brain’s coding over the last 21 years. Even with all this external evidence, some part of me still screams that I’m not good enough to build a “successful” life. Anticipating emotional tsunamis makes dreaming feel dangerous even when I can feel sand under my soles and the tide resting quietly. People show me they like me, yet my fogged view reflects that they “hate” me — that old contradiction I can’t seem to shake.
The nice thing about growth? I know I’m not stuck in this liminal space “figuring it out” eternally.
I have an exciting life in Salem ahead. I see who I’ll be, the adventures I’ll walk through, and the people I’ll meet already. My skin crawls seeing the adventurous me I want in my mind while I’m (mostly) holed up in limbo. It kills me not being there yet. For the next few weeks, though, I can only wade impatiently in a sea of boxes here in Rhode Island.
This isn’t a void; this is a launching pad with the countdown already ticking.
If you’re interested in reaching the depths of this page (the essays, the quiet rituals, the messy middle of becoming), my Patreon is where they rest. It’s where I post behind-the-scenes, longer reflections, photo sets, and the small magic that doesn’t always make it to the blog.
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