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I’ve been off this week. I don’t really have any words to share or novel ideas to write about. Anything I’ve thought of, you’ve probably already read somewhere else on the internet.

I want to be unique, but I’m tired of trying. I’m no different than you - yet somehow, you remain different from me. Better than me. Your sentences string themselves together beautifully, like a necklace of pearls I can’t afford to buy. Mine more like tangled up holiday lights. Now I can’t even remember why I wanted to start writing in the first place. Was it ever just for me, or was it always a plea to be seen? 

Maybe, on a subconscious level, it was for rejection by design. Like a flow chart: my words at the top, rejection at the bottom. Go left to compliment me, and I will pretend to accept it but secretly reject myself, convincing me that you were just being polite. A true martyr, saving me from my own embarrassment. Go right to send it to our friends, scoffing at my audacity to even try. I can feel the whispers. Suppress my own projection. Whichever way you go, I will always find a reason to reject myself, curling back into the comfort of isolation. My therapist tells me this is my defense. 

I remember 4 years ago, when I was living in L.A., journals stacked on the floor in line format beside my bed. Pages upon pages of unbound words and magical thinking. I guess, eventually, my hand grew tired. Too weary to hold even a vessel of ink. I haven’t written in a journal since. Sometimes I fear that my inability to write will seep into my brain and I’ll wake up one day forever unable to think for myself. Brain dead but still alive. I hate that thought. It keeps me up some nights. Thank God we have ChatGPT, right? I shall reluctantly use you as my emergency lifeline once my spark fades and my life force has run dry. 

This isn’t a “sad girl” post. I have depression, but I am not depressed. I eat, though I currently don’t have much of an appetite. It’s been 55 days since my last period. My hormones are horomone-ing. No, I’m not pregnant. Just numb. Temporarily. But in a normal way. I know you’ve been here too, right? Swallowed by your couch and spit back out like a baked potato. I like to think it happens to the best of us. Usually, operating under the alias “seasonal depression.” I don’t think it’s that for me. But that’s probably what I’ll tell you so you let me live in peace. 

This too shall pass. As to when I cannot predict. Maybe in a day or two. It has been five already and my typical bounce back rate is a week.

So, until then, I scroll: TikTok, Instagram, Twitter - but not Substack. I don’t need to see the reflections of what I cannot muster up the energy to be. My mental is fine. I promise, mom. I’m sensitive but steady. Generally happy, just low on joy. Sort of like moving through fog, but with a flashlight in hand.

My phone dings. I have a message from a friend. She needs me. Wants to see me. She has words to share, just with me. Only me. How lucky am I? I feel special. My existence is validated. 

The thing about external validation though is that it’s fleeting. For a second, I believe my battery has recharged. But it hasn’t. Which sucks. And that’s okay. I guess I just need a few more days. 

I don’t know what this essay is supposed to be. I feel stupid. What is my mouth for if I have nothing to say? Or my hands if they are too fragile to type. I just miss my dogs. And how my hair feels after coming out of the salt water, drying in August heat and ocean breeze. 

I guess that’s the point of this whole thing - not just of Substack, but also life. It’s not supposed to look like anything, so why must I constantly make it so? Shaping it into something its not. Forcing it to appear as something it’s not meant to be.

Maybe to escape the fear of never truly living out my body’s full potential. Achieving nothing. No merit to show. No legacy left behind.

The past ten months living in Milan have been nothing short of incredible. But on days like today I wonder if all I ever did this past year was vibe through time zones and eat things I can’t pronounce. Did I board the wrong plane? Is this enlightenment or just one long episode jet lag?

Like Valerie said today:

is there a way to actually embed this? anyone know?

After 29 years of life, I know this statement to be true. In her recent essay (which always hits) she talks about the complexities of independence and self-worth, but really the crux is harsh truth of having to face your emotions in solitude. Needless to say, I felt seen. After reading it, I immediately got up to write. Like I said, I’m no different than you - I’m no different than her - yet she somehow remains different from me. Sentence after sentence, her words strung together like that necklace of pearls. As for mine? Exhausted and tangled, still. 

Maybe that’s a good thing though. Maybe it’s exactly what I needed: A reminder from someone who I see carries pieces of me, but sits at arms length of what I aspire to be. And so, for the first time in twenty days, I have written. I feel better already.

Thank you, Valerie ᵕ̈

w. luv in the club - Bx.