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Do you ever worry about your identity? As the belly gazer I am, I do… often. Maybe part of it is the “me blindness” inherent in being human, or alexithymia, or simply that we humans are constantly in flux, our personalities complex, nuanced. It’s hard to codify our essence into a simple, linear descriptor. Add to that the fact that we are a product of the electrical signals inherent to us AND the environment AND our history AND the things we need to fake… I feel that it results in us being a multi-layered, intricate work of art. So though I know that I am elusive to myself it is both exciting and disconcerting at once.

I try… I often try to detangle myself. I recall as a young lady playing dumb Buzzfeed quiz after Buzzfeed quiz. Are You Pastel or Neon? What Hogwarts House are You? Which Ninja Turtle are you? Which Ice Cream Flavor are You? It was a way to map myself, when I knew I was many things at the same time. Because I mask well, and because I fawn, and because I learned what people expect from me, these exercises were a way for me to find that tiny kernel of authenticity. Because when one’s identity is a patchwork of what makes people happy and keeps them close, well shit, you forget who you are. Like even last week, when I was listening to classical music, and I thought:

“I adore classical music that sounds like a museum bathed in sunlight”

I paused. I became worried. Is this like some fake poetry me popping up? But the thought made me happy. I liked thinking of the Grecian statues, bouquets, (Thaïs) Meditation, giant paintings of giant flowers. Daubs of paint, so thick one wants to explore every crevice with one's fingertips (which is totally allowable in fantasy museum™). The space vast and endless... it's a pretty picture and made me happy. But anyway, I worried that because it’s not something one says in casual conversation, that I was trying too hard, even with myself. Manic Pixie Girls are adorable when Natalie Portman is saving Zach Braff’s soul, but irl? Nah. It’s not as charming and I can assure you that my weird thoughts saved nobody’s soul. Maybe it made them laugh that someone can be so odd?

I think I was confused because I had a spontaneous thought far from who I see myself (serious, anxious, slightly irreverent, but never poetic). But thinking about it, it’s ok sometimes, no? Even if I am spouting a sentimental cliché? Because it’s an authentic thought. And a tiny clue to build a better picture of who I am, alone, and masking for no one.

Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.
– Walt Whitman (Song of Myself)