When cleaning out a cabinet this week I found a small stack of the few papers that I had decided years ago I should hang on to. Some were academic papers bearing the praise of renowned professors, some were terrible poetry with guitar chords written above the words. And one was a few paragraphs, with only the date “Sept 24” at the top. My guess is that particular September was in the early 2000s, based on the mixture of uncertainty and lingering-but-soon-to-be-conquered depression that it displays.
This writing, which I do not remember putting down, took my breath away for how it captured the mess of emotions that swirls inside a 20-year-old woman.
I want to cry, scream, breathe. I know I will never relax. I fear commitment – I can’t settle into anything. I know there is always something better, lurking around the next corner, I expect it. It is always on the fringes of my consciousness.
I have nothing to give. My desire to be passionately committed to everything makes me feel nothing, I cannot really love. I never touch the ground, skimming over everything my fingers trace forms and outlines but don’t grab on, nothing gets lodged under my fingernails.
My voice doesn’t ring. Hollow space lies between my mind and my senses. I have given myself away for nothing, feigned a selfless act for selfish gains. Part of me wants to be everywhere but I am nowhere. I long to be in a singular place, to feel one thing, calmly, silently, with my senses interpreting silently the slow flow of stimuli that will not have the power to drown me.
If any of this resonates with you, if you are the one who feels everything and nothing at the same time, know that at a certain point I found that singular place.