The saga continues. And isn’t that how it always starts?

Life never really starts. It just is. It flows through us and then leaves at any arbitary time. During this lifetime, my mind fills with all kinds of clear delusions like who am I, what am I doing, and who even cares. The funny thing about these internal questions is that they’re not questions at all. Perhaps the rhetorical kind, leaving me more confused than ever before.

Today’s musings: where the hell is my wallet? Do I have Borderline Personality Disorder? Is it easier to get a diagnosis or am I just looking for something to blame? Why do I have a caffeine headache before and after having some? Do I want to intrigue the idea of a nicotine addiction? Where will I stumble next?

I’ve decided to channel an earlier version of this conciousness. Eleven year old me must have some insight! She steps up into the spotlight, and this is all I remember. Voraciously reading books accompanied by apples and peanut butter, sticky fingers on the library pages. Wearing a tankini, wondering why the hell my nipples hurt so bad. Having a flip phone I didn’t need at all, clicking buttons endlessly. Seeing horror movies in theaters, listening through doors and walls to things I definitely didn’t need to hear. What help is this? None at all. Just a pre developed me, scared of her recognition, confused at her sudden reemergence.

So goodbye, eleven year old me. Retreat back into the shadows of the psyche. Let us bring out the real star of this mind. Fifteen year old me takes the platform. She is catlike in essence, and her eyelids never fully open. Who are you? She’s me, but better; she seems older. At this age, power is so easily grasped it terrifies everyone but the one who wields it. But even here, in this version, there is emptiness behind my eyes. Like if I stare blankly for long enough, I might just sigh out my entire being. There is untapped freedom at my fingertips. Looking at me is a challenge in itself. All my body says is I dare you. Desires are crushed daily due to fear and expectations. Later, I understand that if not now, never.

Never it is.

Fifteen year old me sulks off the stage, probably going straight to where she knows she can inflict long standing damage. What’s left after that? Pretty much nothing. Any age younger than eleven is inaccessible due to extreme memory loss and trauma blocking. Past fifteen and the years blur into an endless mass of regret and horrible shame. Nineteen year old me stands, mouth to the mic, but all I hear is my own breathing. Seriously, not a thought behind those eyes.

Sometimes I stare at my body and wonder how it is that I am attached to it. My gaze travels from my toes up to my collarbone, and then I try to comprehend that I am inside what comes above.

When I think about a soul, I feel like it lives in the chest and stomach. Mine is missing, I never feel it. My head is wrapped in a thick cloudy layer of plastic, and anything coming from it can’t be trusted. When I talk, I have to remember that I am talking. The streams of nothing flow so easily, and sometimes not at all.

I am able to listen to music, read, and be in a car all at once. I used to think this was cool. As I grow up, I realize that I don’t like to be left alone with just me. The music is something to ignore, and the reading is something to distract. The car moves my body. But where is the consciousness? I am unsure.

I am pretty sure my life is a weird music video for Bob Seger’s Still the Same. I have never gambled, but it doesn’t really matter. I compare this life to sitting on a train, looking out the window. It all flies by, and yet you can barely slow it down enough to see. Eventually it’s just a big mushy smear of sky and land, and nothing else matters.

My wallet has been discovered, and now it awaits for me to come and pick it up. Crisis averted. Something with a stress attached and instantly I come alive. Just long enough to stabilize myself back into the endless numb.

I am pretty sure if you looked through my eyes for a day you’d feel the prison of this body. Not just because I am a woman, but because I am.

When I see pictures of me as a child, I wonder what you are supposed to feel. I see a kid. Not myself. That girl is non existent, and has never existed as far as I’m concerned. I am obsessed with the future versions of me, and then once I have reached the age of this so called future, I disappoint myself. I never become what I hoped I’d be by now.

When I think about Mr. Right, I am saddened. This is because I know that I am no one’s Mrs. Right. I believe the real me to be a poorly hidden secret that deserves shaming and craves chaos. I need to be set free and beaten away like a wild horse who doesn’t understand their newfound freedom.

I exist within a set of boundaries. Boundaries set by others. What cracks can I fill? What am I needed as? Mold me, O valiant Potter. Sculpt me in your hands, carress the curves you devised. Throw me into the kiln and let’s see if I withstand the fire, or if I shatter under your weight.

Use me, end me, define me. It’s easy. Fake an obsession with me, divert my attention and strike. Just manipulate away my freedom and choice. Give me an excuse to be bad and do what you want with me afterwards. Let me hide in your shadow. Create a world we can live in secretly, passing cherry seeds mouth to mouth.

I am the rabbit looking for a snake. Swallow me alive and whole, and let me feel as if I am apart of the viper.

College student, woman, master of sarcasm, occasional inhabitant of this brain. Nebraska. Washington.