I’ve been avoiding this blog in an attempt to avoid myself. Writing holds me accountable to every feeling and thought I have – especially the ones I don’t want to publish.
I started this blog because I thought I wanted to express myself in a positive way that could potentially help others. I thought I wanted to speak to others in my life candidly and compassionately, not limited by 140 characters or text speak. But I just realized (no, really, I just realized 5 minutes ago) that this blog has been a way for me to speak to myself.
I write a lot about self-love and self-acceptance. I mean, I write a lot about silly, political, and pointless things too. It’s nice to masquerade my word vomit into a faux-professional blog post. But when people ask me why I have a blog and what I write about, I’d say that it falls under a general category of personal insights and self-improvement. I’ve tried to create a space of positivity and hope for not just people who might read this while procrastinating an essay or waiting for the bus, but also for myself. I write the words I wish people would tell me, and I also tell myself it could help others (is altruism really real? nah).
(I wasn’t intending to lose all credibility through this blog post, but que sera sera).
Anyway, I write what I want to hear. I write what I think other people need to hear. But I don’t know how often and how honestly I write about my daily life. I doubt I truly represent myself via carefully chosen words in a public diary.
I generally try to avoid blog posts about getting 3 hours of sleep. Or listening to the same sad song for 72 hours. Or compulsively coloring my hair whenever I’m sad (I type this with blue dye in my hair). I don’t write about how I’m too exhausted to cry or how anxious I feel at parties or how afraid I am of letting other people down. I don’t write about how, sometimes, just breathing makes my heart ache.
(Because, wow, that sounded really stupid and egomaniacal….)
Because those aren’t words other people want to read. They aren’t words I want to read about myself. Even when I attempt to foster some sort of positive space, I neglect to explain how I really feel. It’s easy to talk about being happy and it’s important to create communities of compassion and inclusion wherever you go. I want to have conversations with others about how I can help them and encourage them to be brave, strong, and happy. It’s so fucking idealistic, but I’m trying, okay?
I’m really frustrated with myself. I’ve reached the age or maybe just experienced enough to realize that my constant dissatisfaction with myself isn’t okay. I tell myself to stand up for myself, but I can’t even stand up to myself. I know what I need to do. I need to recognize what I love in the world and keep my feet on the ground. I need a backbone. I fight so hard for the movements and people I care about – I need to fight for myself.
I need moments in the morning after waking to just breathe. I need to acknowledge my lungs and my pulse and acknowledge them as enough. Myself as enough. I need to listen to music that makes me want to dance and I need to eat 3 meals a day and I need to sleep more and spend less time talking to people who make me feel insignificant. I need to be okay feeling sad and be motivated to feel happy. I need to stop telling myself that “it’s fine” when it’s not, and I really need to stop making excuses for bad people and worse friends. I need to stop cultivating such intense negativity towards myself and forgive, forgive, forgive. I need to write myself a damn love letter and treat my body like poetry.
I don’t know how to conclude this. It’s probably nonsensical and unimportant and also a horrible entanglement of half-thoughts. But it’s okay because it wasn’t for your reading pleasure. Not really.
I am starting to feel better.
on being diana 