they dance around their questions as ordered. i do take note. they lack grace, but i can’t blame them for being afraid to ask me. i’ve never shied away from self exploration in the least, yet even i have no answers with which to feed myself a plate of cognitive dissonance bullshit.
let me guess: you want to know why i don’t do anything. so do i.
i used to feel so much. additionally, i was extremely prone to unhealthy infatuation driven by lust which immaculately disguised itself as love. if asked, i’d claim to be a romantic and i meant it. i felt so “deep.”
when i’d craft the stories, the content was swaddled in emotion. feelers would return to feel more with me and i would feed their hunger for the melancholy and the subtle.
but as i aged, i ceased to feel. instead, i analyzed, theorized. i philosophized.
without feeling, this muted effect hinders my ability to be forthcoming where i once would have been. through my adult lens, it appears easier to swallow frustration while rationalizing. i subsequently document nothing despite an abundance of perfectly worthy topics. i save draft after draft of meticulously edited prose yet i lack the emotional push to send it out to the world.
because why? because for what?
“tell them about the shame.”
okay, sure, yeah, that’s easy. they’re ashamed of me and admit as much during cigarette breaks on my back porch. i’ve been here before and it isn’t new. it does sting, however, and tends to catch me completely off guard. sometimes my stomach twists, i usually drink to gloss it over, and the majority of the time, i dive straight into “fuck everything” mode.
but it isn’t like i haven’t been a secret before and it isn’t like i’m unwilling to perform an encore.
the shame comes in waves due to the dichotomy of deeply valuing my stubborn nature while simultaneously feeling temporarily destroyed because the ones i love most are afraid to confess my very existence.
because i can’t be the way that i’ve chosen if i want them to know i’m a being.
i understand the way in which the entry of role model figures immediately begins deconstructing my value in their minds. to be clear, i do not think this is intended or even recognized on a conscious level. to be honest, this discussion wouldn’t end well so i never allow it to begin. to be fair, i swallow and bury this in hopes that the realization of my importance might outweigh the sting in the end.
after all, it’s happened this way before. and here i remain.
i am aware of a distant nagging in my head regarding backup plans, but tending to that concern will quickly drown my energy, my trust, and any appearance of well-being i may still possess.
to be blunt, my being is not well as i cannot be due to not being what they define as “well.”
something about this all screams ridiculous to me, but i am only some she who cannot be named.
and the nameless are rarely the shameless.