I didn’t want to write an entry in this headspace, mostly because I hate being so open about how I feel. Emotions are messy and complicated, however I’ve spent too much time in therapy to learn to be afraid of them. Emotional chaos is something to lean into, to accept rather than fight. This can be a provocative idea, but it bears the gift of personal evolution.
I smoked weed again on Saturday. I have gone exactly 4 weeks without smoking and I’ve had only 1 drink in the past 4 weeks as well. I’m doing so much better in terms of consumption. It’s weird being open about this stuff because I run the risk of incurring judgment. In New York City we are supposed to air out our perfection and shutter our flaws. I’ve spent too much time in therapy though, endlessly gazing at my shortcomings. I lack the naïveté to paint my being in a glossy veneer and present myself as pristine to the world.
I’ve always been this way though. When I was a kid my mom would take me to suburban dinner parties and I would always balk at the aunties and uncles that paraded their money and career accomplishments in front of us. It felt like such a shallow way of connecting, there was never any meat to the experience. Canada was different though. You were expected to be your best, but you were also expected to live from your soul. To emerge as the best version of yourself, not the best version of what society wanted you to be. Show us the evolution of your spirit, not your resume.
I feel exhausted by dating, and I feel exhausted by how men see and perceive me. I started this blog because I thought it could give me a voice, that it would make my intelligence tenable. I’m realizing though that this blog won’t succeed in that mission. It’s too eccentric and skews too far from the norm to be comfortably consumed as a product of logic and intelligence. I’ve skewed too far from the norm by luxuriating in feeding my soul.
I’m trying to find my femininity again. Dating is catastrophic. Men. They run their hands inside your being, crumple you from within, and then admonish you for not being good enough. Portishead’s Glory Box reverberates in my mind: “Give me a reason to be a woman.” We can never quite soften enough to bloom if we’re fending off toxicity. The liberation of my womanhood is coming though, and soon I will be able to feed myself what others starved me of.
a soft death 