This Body is Bullshit

I’ve been rereading some of my older entries lately and I noticed something.

I’m being honest. I am. But I don’t think I’m being fully real.

It’s like I’m writing with one foot on the brake the whole time. Shaping things just enough that they’re still presentable. Still palatable. Still something I could hand someone without feeling completely exposed.

And I’m not sure if that’s me protecting myself or protecting other people from worry. Probably both. Probably always both.

This is supposed to be therapy. Sometimes it is. But a lot of the time it feels more like storytelling. And I’m good at storytelling. I’m good at taking a hard thing and finding the angle that makes it bearable — for me, for whoever’s reading, for everyone in the room.

The question I keep sitting with is: do I actually have a lot of anger and fear inside that I’m just really good at masking? Or have I genuinely processed more than I give myself credit for?

I don’t know.

I feel okay. I almost always feel okay. And that’s exactly what worries me — because I’ve felt okay through some genuinely not okay things. I don’t know anymore if that’s strength or just a very convincing performance I’ve been giving for so long I can’t tell the difference.

I want this to be the place where I don’t flinch. Where I stop editing for someone else’s comfort. Where I say the hard thing even when it doesn’t resolve into anything clean.

I’m not sure I know how to do that yet.

But I think that’s worth writing down too.