My core story is that I’m amazing, but can’t let myself admit it. It is unsafe.
I’ve always known who I was, and fell into the temptation to love this thing that I am at an early age…but the constant, constant punishment, both for being this thing and for having the gall and effrontery to love myself anyway, they’ve taken their toll.
I’m going to have to choose an identity soon.
It can be one of two. My self—or the false self that rejects the real one. The soul I came into the world with—or the false consciousness I’ve adopted in order to hide it, not realizing that it would do so convincing a job.
How does one express, in this bastardly world, the inner feeling of being seven feet tall and made of holographic glitter? How does one begin to live life out of that place, if one is stuck geographically in someone else’s miserable swamp?
I’m going to have to be myself, soon, or it will kill me. And “myself” is something even the people who tell you to “be yourself” wouldn’t much like. I’m not like most people, let alone most women.
I feel like a giant freak in a deceptively tiny, tense little body. And I am so fucking tired of other people’s rules.
When I look deep into my heart, at the core of me, I don’t see a story. I see an eternal glowing presence, flaming and ultraviolet. The story begins right outside that core—the narrative I’ve woven all my life to explain myself to people who hate me.
Two braided strands, of love for myself and abhorrence for myself. I must follow those strands from my surface to my interior, unweaving them, and discarding one.
I hope I choose wisely.