Who the hell am I?

My mind is again playing tricks on me, not like the normal tricks where you walk upstairs and completely lose thought of why you bothered to come up, once you hit that bottom step it hits you and you have to do that crazy run just not to forget again. Not like those mind tricks that make you forget your name in an interview or on the phone but the ones that swap you from heart breaking sadness too full frontal hyper -ness in a matter of seconds, the tricks that leave you empty like your mind has had enough and decided to walk out but forgot to inform everyone else they were taking a strike. The kind of mind tricks that make you question your sanity. Your ability to function throughout the simplest of tasks or even something you’ve done every day of your life but for some reason now it becomes an impossibility.

 

Strangely the easiest way to explain the constant twists and turns in my mental ability, emotional rollercoaster and physical ache is an empty shell, not like those you find on a beach that sparkle in the light, where you can hear the waves if you listen closely but the ones you find when you haven’t been on holiday in years and the closest thing you have to a beach is the sand at the park. The little dark and broken shell you see in the corner of your eye as you’re sat at the bus stop, the one you don’t even bother giving a second glance. That’s the kind of shell I feel like, empty and broken not because of my past or even the pain I’ve gone through but because of my inability to understand who I am? Yes, I know I have a name, an address, a job, family, and friends so shouldn’t that be who I am? They make up who you are but shouldn’t you have a baseline of the person you are or am I reading into cliché movies and books that tell you? You need a calling, a hope of something to achieve or at least a passion to be a person. They tell you, you need to have a purpose to be for real, a unique and perfect style that reflects your personality and passions. Does that make you who you are? 

I can’t be the only one, who’s watching their life pass by with no hope of ever stepping out of the comfort zone. I have got into the habit of completing every day. The struggle of alarms, six hours of work, home and bed. Not clearly understanding the person I have grown to be, not able to find my ideal style no matter how hard I search, loving every new style I see in magazines and spat across my news feed thinking “WOW heart eyes” at every single picture but when it comes to me and I try the same style it doesn’t look like me whoever the hell that is. To be honest I think I’ve worn the same jeans and t-shirt combo since I was a kid, the safe option I’d rather take than the risk of feeling nauseous when I see myself in photos or simply in the mirror or a passing shop window when I try to step closer to what I think is me. I look at new styles and have a wardrobe full of dresses that are begging to be worn yet I just stare at them like that’s their purpose. I can’t manage to put them on when I’m going anywhere, maybe that’s my style?

Maybe, there are two versions of me. There’s the version everyone can see and hear and the version I’ve made up in my head. The version that’s so perfect that the real me (again whoever the hell that is) can’t possibly compare to the perfect one I have created. The one that doesn’t have a scary, painful and emotional past. The one that doesn’t have arguments and hurting situations pop up into her mind at the most awkward moment and potentially ruin their good mood. The one that can wear anything and look amazing. The one that has the confidence to love herself any way, she can look incredible wearing anything, but that isn’t me. It’s the me I probably want to be and that’s also probably why I’m so confused with who the hell I am. I so badly want to be a different a version of myself. I want to create a perfect person when deep down I know there’s no such thing as perfection, especially with yourself. We are all our own worst enemy and extreme critic or at least I am.  

To me, the only way I can find myself is traveling the world, discovering new sights, people and experiences. Yes, another cliché it may seem, but one that could work, one that has probably worked for many people and I aspire to be one of them. Does that make me who I am? A passion for travel that I can’t seem to grasp does the passion make me who I am? I think it goes a good way to being a part of who I am.

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