I thought becoming skinny would help. It didn’t.
All my life, I was struggling with weight. Not that I was severely obese or anything, but that I thought of myself as ugly. I hated the way I looked in the mirror, and I always thought there was more I could change. But — newsflash! — every time I reached a certain point (read: arbitrary standard of beauty) after starving and exhausting myself, I was amazed to realize I didn’t feel any different. I was still the same me.
I was still anxious, weird, socially awkward, still unable to talk to girls without feeling like a complete idiot. Still wanting to escape my body and mind through any accessible (and legal) method. Still not feeling enough. Still wondering whether the next big project, milestone, or idea would make me happy.
Still afraid of my dad.
It’s painful to let go of ideas you held on to for so long. Whether it’s the idea that a certain relationship would work or the image/narrative of yourself you used to explain your behavior (to your own self). When a certain model stops working, you first keep at it, by inertia. But once you give it up, it feels like a little death.
Then a question appears. Now what?
The hardest bit is The Limbo. That in-between state after your previous life/strategy/idea stopped working and before a new one is on the horizon. You walk around the familiar streets in a haze. You watch other people go by their daily lives and wonder what it would take for you to be like them. Set. Happy. Confident. Knowing.
Of course, you don’t see that they too have something. That their lives are also marked with death, uncertainty, anxiety, and heartbreak. It’s easy to feel sorry for yourself when all you see is the billboard versions of other people: both online and offline. But that’s what our culture makes us: fakes. We bottle up our anger, fear, resentment, and shove it up our asses. Then we put a smile on our faces and walk around, lying when people ask us how we’re doing.
A friend recently told me that when they moved from Russia to Europe, they were amazed by how often people asked her how she was doing. At first, she recalled, she told the truth. But she kept getting weird looks from people. Nobody wants to know how you’re doing. Not really. Then why do they ask that? she said. Because it’s what’s expected, I replied.
It’s funny how much of what we do is just that: fulfilling other people’s expectations, trying to be liked, working hard to avoid being judged by these other people. But who are these people we’re so afraid of? Where do they live? What do they look like?
They don’t exist. Or rather, they do.
It’s us.
Contrary to popular slogans, I am not sure it’s possible to always feel enough. Or be emotionally healthy. Nobody is. We’re all fucked up in our own peculiar ways and we all seek an escape from that feeling, no matter how fleeting that escape might be. Some people make and save a lot of money to get a temporary fix of feeling secure. Others collect likes on Instagram to feel as if they’re valued or seen. Then some, like yours truly, rant about nothing in particular to a thousand strangers to feel heard. We’re all drug addicts; all we do is chase feelings, hormones, peace of mind.
None of it makes sense. And yet, there’s nothing else.
So you just keep on going.
P.S. You can buy me a coffee and ask a question here.
So very true.... "wherever you go, there you are" Sometimes I would like a vacation away from me😆 Thanks as always Sergey