ruminations for a midnight breakfast

 alternate titles: i hope that email didn’t find you, and that you found this instead, coming out of my egg and i’m doing just okay—this wasn’t a coming out joke, stay with me here (happy pride month), what boiled eggs do to a mf, my dreamscape hellscape (personally customized!!)

Whenever people ask “What kind of animal would you be?” I always want to say I’d be a bird, but I know I’d never fly.

And when I say that, I don’t mean that I would be a flightless bird like a penguin or a chicken or a shrimp-dyed flamingo, what I mean by that is that I’d always see others go, grow, shake their wings, jump, skip, and stop before learning how to take off, to taste the freedom that comes with learning how to leave the nest.

My feathers, a soft unburnt tawny, ever-so-justly hidden from the sun would atrophy and shrink, and before I knew it, would turn into vestigial muscles that I could live my life having and soon forget what they were made for, what I was made for.

I’d be flightless because that’s the only thing I know how to do.

Hello again, it’s me. I’ve been reflecting on my fears recently and after an hour-long conversation with my therapist (where I didn’t cry!), I ended up saying that the world feels like a hot stove to me. 

When I was a kid, I was in a velveteen cage. I was kept, quiet, and controlled. And yes, safety obviously was the most pertinent concern, alongside making sure I didn’t crack my head open at the bottom of our staircase, my hopes and dreams leaking out of my ears like spinal fluid.

But, as my brain outgrows my body, my wisdoms remain the same, trapped in the consciousness of a small little girl in her too-big body without a thing to show for it. When I left, I escaped—and I can tell you that common sense did not naturally follow.

I’ve been holding myself back, I think, not in the moderation sense. More of a graceless, holding a barking dog by its collar, preventing my tidal waves of unfettered anxiety from unleashing as rage protects me first, as logic tries to keep me from leaving teeth marks on every stranger I meet. For every grand dream I’ve shared, I’ve taken steps back, retreating into familiar shadows that have no surprises for me. 

Anxiety has gripped me tightly these past few months, but every step forward has me relishing the lack of things to be afraid of. There is a slight spring in my step, a victorious hum to my voice as I realize not that there are no things to be afraid of, but that life isn’t purposely leaving me behind. 

The unfamiliar has its perks… and its deficits.

A year of officially not living at home (accomplishments that I thought would never come for me!), a year of working a full-time job (surviving patrons, government insurance, and a myriad of misunderstandings and workarounds), and a year in my mostly unfurnished apartment (even though now, making it feel homey is still an active process.)

A lovely person handed me a pride flag right before my train ride home, which now rests in my pencil holder, keeping my Ghibli-themed pencils company.

A friend sent me a dinner party invite (just after they attended Pride). I donned my battle armor (frog-patterned cardigan), braving the cement wave of dread that weighed my lungs down, and left the house. Guilt stewed my stomach, wrestling my mind between what-ifs and yeah-rights.

“If they didn’t want you there, they wouldn’t have invited you,” someone gently pointed out in my head.

Another friend invited me to a birthday party, and I relished the soft, bubbling joy. Gently lacing my fingers over it, I hoped not to scare it away before I could remember what it felt like to miss it.

On the other hand, untangling the frayed cords making up my brain has unlocked new, explosive bursts of energy. Currently, on my third panic attack and counting. 

But my therapist is so gently picking up the near-pulverized pieces of me and taking each step with me, one at a time. Possible neurodivergency (who would’ve thunk it?) and unpacking attachment issues is more fun than it sounds (especially when you get bonus points for making your therapist laugh.)

I guess my biggest realization over the past six and a half months is that I’m tired of battling with myself over the alleged fears that will make up most of my adult life; I want to be able to face each part of my life, and say I lived it. That I didn’t let myself fall prey to the familiar. 

I don’t want to have each crack in the plaster of my bedroom’s four walls memorized, those tattooed through my gray matter instead of finally designing the tattoos I want (that I will still have to hide from my mother.)

I want to stop relishing the theoretical catharsis of me being in pain.

That punishment, the white-hot shame that burns brighter than anger, rules my life and keeps me waiting for the tirade of anguish that surely people have towards me.

That part could be wrong.

But the fear of being right is easier to believe.

Yet that fear, that anguish never brings me comfort. So why should I relish it any longer?

I wish I had a more positive update to share, but for now, I can make these unhallowed halls feel like a home. 

I’m learning how to tack tapestries and posters to leave my security deposit unscathed, choosing which posters to hang up, aiding in a new favorite color taking over my room. 

(It’s green, if you were wondering.)

Today, I’m taking a trip to a new grocery store, just to see how I’ll like it.

And tomorrow, more of the waking world and less dreams.

currently reading: kaiju no. 8, my hero academia, chainsaw man, the handful of graphic novels that i can fit in my purse (most recently go with the flow & look on the bright side by karen schneemann and lily williams)

currently watching: kaiju no. 8, kaguya-sama: love is war, haikyuu!!, fma: brotherhood