Tunnel Vision
eat, breathe, cfa. That’s life now, besides the obligatory work hours. And surprise surprise I’m writing again. Because as usual, I can’t help but procrastinate. At least it’s somewhat productive this time. After getting that new phone, I downloaded the app for this and realized that they have analytics. And the numbers were higher than I thought they would be. I’m simultaneously concerned and flattered. Because I didn’t think people would really be able to find this. And because I didn’t really think anyone would care to check, even the people that I shared it with. I wonder what they all think of me. Is this all really what I think of me?
When I first started this, I would re-read all the posts. Some of them I would be proud of. But now I’m a little uncomfortable and I actually haven’t checked back since Trees. I’m also a little concerned that all of these things I would never really tell people in real life, all of these things are out there now. All of my messed up thoughts and instability and weakness and whining coupled with writing that definitely doesn’t do any of my experiences justice. You know you’re whining now. I’ve been thinking about deleting everything. You know what Roe would say. I can’t just keep deleting everything just so I can feel some semblance of control.
Yesterday I spent all day studying and it finally occurred to me how behind I really am. How much I could’ve been doing. Who else I could’ve been becoming. When the parents came to pick me up for a late dinner in Flushing at Mountain House, for some reason I felt myself fade. It was like my mind was quiet and I was just floating, not quite in my body, but not quite gone. And I was sad, but not terribly so. It was oddly ethereal, sitting in the car, seeing all the lights in the windows of building that turned into jello and wanting to slice down into them, take a peak at what all of these other people do. How it is that they live. How it is I should live.
The waitress told us that the hosts said I was very pretty and looked like a fairy. And I’m not sure why I’m writing this here but for some reason it felt very important to me. I think it’s just that there’s something pure about knowing that there are a few people out there who think good thoughts about me, even if only for a moment. And they’re not my friends, or my family, not boys that want something from me. Not people who know me at all. Is it really a compliment then? Maybe not, but even, I’ve been having issues with the way I look. A few weeks ago I hated my body. I hated my face. I wanted to change everything. They way my arms are too big, the layer of fat over my belly, the fat in my cheeks, the size of my eyes, the height of my nose. And I don’t anymore, even though I’m still running and counting. Uh huh. But I think deep down, in a part of my subconscious that I can’t quite confirm, I think I might equate being alone with being unworthy, even though I know it not to be true. But when my mind tells me to hate the way I look, it’s not a punishment. It’s a form of defense. Because the way I look is external and physical and ultimately changeable. The alternative would be admitting that I am unloved because of who I actually am. That’s not so easy to change.
I find it easier to be honest now that my thoughts are more or less split in two. Though I honestly think it’s always been like this, I just have never noticed the pattern. Did you know that communities with languages that have more words for the color green can actually identify more shades of green? And it’s not that other people don’t see it, it’s just harder for their brains to recognize it. Now that I’ve categorized the way I think a little bit more, it’s like I get to write without skipping steps. I filter less because that part of my brain that tempers the loops I like to dive into? That part gets its own voice. Thanks I guess? Maybe honest isn’t better for something that exists on the internet. But for now I won’t delete these. For now I’ll keep writing, good or bad, polished or not. But only when I’m not studying.