I write to introduce me to myself.
An exercise in identity, working out the confusing parts in text to free them from the confines and trappings of my distorted mind. Is that profound? Is it meant to be?
I am young, queer, bi+, a mother, a midwife, a woman, polyamorous, smart, emotional, depressed, slutty, a good girl…
How many times have I run through that list in the quiet moments of my mind? How many times have I explained it to others, family, friends, lovers? How accurate is it? How honest is it?
I wish I had the ability to know myself the way I crave too. With startling clarity and microscopic accuracy. I wish I didn’t question.
My therapist tells me to be kind to myself. To practice the kindness I strive to provide others on myself. I am supposed to catch my cognitive distortions before they eat at me, cause me guilt and pain. I am supposed to celebrate the moments to be proud of and to forgive the times I make mistakes. To accept good enough.
I promise I wont always write like this. Pretentious with a false sense of importance. But in this moment that is what my brain feels like. Questions upon questions, thoughts without coherent conclusions.