A blank page waiting patiently for me. And a brain that’s not exactly quiet but also isn’t about to burst from within my skull and send bits of frantic, frenetic existential thoughts flying around my just-cleaned kitchen. A balanced middle-ground, even if achieved accidentally, is appreciated. I enjoy this moment.
I draw a circle. Well, not really. I’m really typing some bullshit on my phone, littering my Notes app with typos that I’ll fix once I’ve emptied my entire self on this digital expanse of whiteness that, as I think about it now, oddly reminds me of purgatory, but that might be a topic for later because boy do I have other plans for this current thought-process. I feel so compelled to write something flowery and metaphorical, and back to my point, even though I’m actually typing some nonsense on my phone, pretend if you will that I’m drawing a goddamn circle.
It’s oddly misshapen, because apparently even metaphorical Laura can’t draw. I label the circle “me,” and I do it in box letters that look shitty even though I tried like hell to make em neat because I’m trying to make sense of the chaos because hashtag self-awareness am I right?
Outside “me,” I draw two more circles. The me that’s actually typing this shit considered three circles, then four, then just a ton, but landed on two. They’re labeled “people I care about” and “people I don’t fucking care about.” (The f-bomb added for some flair)
Between “me” and the other two circles I draw a fence. Metaphorical me can draw now. (The magic of writing— I can do what I want)
The fences are boundaries. They’ve been drawn on this imaginary piece of paper because no iteration of myself understands what in the fucking fuck they are. (More flair, for my own personal pleasure)
Or maybe that’s not true, because the fence between me and the people I don’t care about is dark and thick and scribbled over again and again. And the fence between me and my loved ones is light, barely there. It’s telling that even in my imagination, I’m afraid to even insinuate that I’d be okay with upsetting someone who’s important to me.
On the page I write: boundaries are the rules we set with people to make sure we’re respected, what were willing to tolerate from others, what we use to protect ourselves from being treated badly.
Then I write: I can’t say no without feeling guilty. I’m often accused of being too nice by people when I explain what I’ve most recently been roped into (and funnily enough, those same people who call me that soon after want me to be roped into their bullshit). I’m afraid of making others feel negative emotions like sadness or anger or stress. My reason for this is I’d rather absorb emotional pain myself because at least I’m certain that I can handle it. It kind of feels like a moral responsibility, actually. Like if I exist as a lightning rod for negativity, it’ll make me worthy of feeling good about myself.
I brain dump: Why is it hard for me to say no? Why can’t I stand up for myself? Have I really not found my voice? Or do I just not use it? Is the reason I love expressing myself through writing because it’s the only way I feel confident being potentially problematic?
I come to some conclusions: I make interpersonal issues bigger than they are sometimes (hi, I’m Laura, and I’m pretty sure that’s a borderline thing). I also don’t think I’ve sat down and defined what my boundaries are, and although I don’t think that’s something normal human beings do, when have I ever been normal? Also also, holy shit do I need to get a handle on my self-esteem.
What a needlessly creative stream-of-conscious this has been. A real pleasure to escape into, if I do say so myself. But before I rejoin my body in reality, I’d like to use this blank void and it’s ability to circumnavigate the normal space-time continuum and bend with my hypothetical ideas to explore something.
𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦, 𝘢 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘵𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘐 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘺 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧, 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥. 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘣𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝙣𝙤. 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯’𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘧𝘶𝘭, 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦-𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘐’𝘮 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰, 𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘐’𝘮 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘐 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘪𝘵. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐’𝘷𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘦𝘸. 𝘚𝘦𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴.
And yeah, that’s about as inspirational as it’s gonna get this evening, but at least there aren’t frantic, frenetic chaotically existential thoughts flying around my kitchen. I’m enjoying this moment.