In my observation, I can’t tell if I’m the victim, the prey, or the observer.
Who am I?
Who are we all?
It fucks me up when I know that the only thing I need to do in life is be me.
But who am I?
Where have I gone, what have I done, and who have I become?
It’s a crazy life, and I just can’t seem to put my finger on it.
At some point, I got really lost. At the exact same moment, I found myself. I have no idea where these two moments intersect, but I know that there is a specific moment in time, unbeknownst to me, when all of this chaos meets in a single place and becomes cordial.
It’s a place where serenity meets destiny. When “I don’t fucking care” sits down at the table with “Let’s do this.” It’s a place completely unfiltered, yet filtered to its fullest.
This place puts its best face forward. It smiles when it meets new people, shakes hands, and makes kind gestures.
This place angrily resents people it meets for their fortunes, their beautiful homes, their happy families, while simultaneously being thankful for all that it has, all that it’s come from, and all that its become.
My place, on the other hand, welcomes the inquiries from others and seeks to find solutions to their questions. I’m a people-pleaser. I love this about myself. Recently, my therapist has questioned if I should really love this quality as much as I do.
The answer? I should, and I do .
But her question made me question myself, as well it should (after all, that’s why I pay her.)
Who exactly am I supposed to be at this moment? I just can’t put my finger on it.
I see photos of friends’ kids graduating, and I think to myself, “Did I fuck up by not wanting that?”
I can’t afford myself, so, no, I can’t put a kid through college.
I see photos of my friends’ babies having their Year One bib baby pictures, and I think “Is that where I’m supposed to be?”
I can’t imagine having babies. So, no, that’s not it.
I see photos of my friends’ beautiful homes they’ve built from the ground, up, and I think, “That could be my house.”
I live in a 600 square foot shoebox. Maybe that’s it.
But I live in a happy life where a man treats me like a princess and plans his every day around my happiness. We’re not rich. We don’t have babies. We have each other.
I can’t quite put my finger on my frustration, but maybe that’s because there’s nothing to really put my finger on. Finger-pointing is blaming. What if I just have a great life, a man who loves me, and a job that needs me?
What if I’m looking for something I don’t need to make me happy? What if I can’t put my finger on it because everything I have in my everyday life is already everything I’ve asked for, regardless of titles, techniques, and tethered histories?
What if I can’t put my finger on it because it’s so obvious?