Ranting about the cost of progress

Don’t get me wrong, I’m very proud of how far I’ve come. I know I was way worse not so long ago, and every color seems a bit brighter lately, for a couple of minutes, but brighter still.

Is this really me? Or is this my becoming?

I did an assignment last week; the task was to explain who I am. I thought about it all week. I ended up writing some generic bull**** that most people would buy, just to get them off my back.

’Cause in reality, I have no f****** clue who or what I am.

I have ideas of what I want to be, but they always shift, as if I have some type of personality disorder (f****** better not).

And even though these ideas shift, it always comes down to the same thing: I want to be seen, recognized, and admired.

I want people to get to know who I really am—not some second-grade interpretation of the mask I choose to wear that day or with that person in particular. My actual self.

But it’s impossible, ’cause you can’t tell everyone your secrets; at the very least, you have to be selective about which secret you share with which person.

I often think of the phrase “Ignorance is bliss.” It sounds nice, but I’m always caught in a duality of thoughts.

Sure, it’d be nice to be “regular folk” and not have to think twice or be “emotionally intelligent,” empathetic, or protective about what you say next. Being completely oblivious to your demolishing surroundings and just going through life in a bubble you don’t even consider popping.

However, I’ve been ignorant, and it wasn’t blissful. I was drowning in an ocean of (very proud of this invention) f*****-upness and pointing fingers at everyone else. Mostly, I was right—but that didn’t change the fact that I had to be the one to make things right for my own sake.

So I gave up on ignorance and became aware.

F*** me, it sucks.

Are you aware of the phrase “What crawled up your a** and died?” (I have no idea who I’m talking to.)

Well, “management” crawled up my a**. I f****** hate it with a passion. Yeah, it helps me regulate my emotions, but eat s*** and die, if I’m honest.

I’m so tired of having to hold back what I actually feel. I know fighting and screaming and moaning and avoiding and exposing and arguing and questioning won’t get me anywhere on this rock, but it’s me, for f***’s sake.

It’s my mind, my being, my soul, and my godforsaken humanity.

I’m exhausted from controlling myself. I’m tired of managing every itsy-bitsy, tiny, little c***-*** thought that goes through my brain just so I don’t end up feeling bad.

I mean, I don’t know what makes me feel more like a p****—the complaining, or the fact that everything affects me.

And again, the f****** duality of it. Yeah, I feel better. Of course, I used to be a piece of s*** who contributed nothing, but I’m caught in between the two.

Everyone around me is patting my aching back, congratulating me on how far I’ve come and how much better I look. There’s a moment when I believe that—but then again, here I am writing this at almost 4:00 a.m.

I don’t know who I am or what I’m supposed to be. I guess no one does.

I don’t know how to conclude this—just imagine a very well-written conclusion to this rant.

(Lol, I said at the beginning that “I’m very proud of how far I’ve come,” and then ended up talking s*** about the people who pointed it out. F****** hate my brain.)