This Body is Bullshit

I’ve been thinking a lot lately—maybe because I’ve gone back and reread some of my older entries—and I realized something: I’m trying to be open here. And I am being honest. But I don’t think I’m being fully real.

It’s like I’m writing with one foot on the brake.

I don’t know if I’m protecting myself or protecting other people from worry—or maybe both. I want this space to be therapy. Sometimes it is. But more often, it feels like I’m telling stories. Shaping them. Cleaning them up just enough that they’re still palatable.

But how do I get raw? How do I let it all out? Or… am I already doing that and just not recognizing it?

I feel okay. I guess I always do. That’s the problem, though. I always feel okay—even when I’m not. I’ve gotten really good at pushing through. At functioning. At smiling and nodding and making jokes even when the truth is sitting heavy in my chest.

I know there’s a lot of anger in me. A lot of fear. It’s there—I can feel it under the surface. But is it that I’ve gotten good at masking it, or have I actually learned how to deal with things?

I’m not sure. But I want to find out.

I want this place to be where I don’t flinch. Where I don’t edit myself for someone else’s comfort. I want to say the hard things. Even if they’re messy. Even if they don’t resolve.

So maybe this is the start. Not a perfectly told story. Just… a crack in the surface.

Let’s see what gets through.