Okay so… I have a serious question for y’all. How much the fuck longer do I need to manifest for my visualisations to start like actually happening?! I mean, I’ve spent so much time on TikTok liking all those sounds that are supposed to heal my inner child, make him text me in the next 5 minutes, help my boobs grow or whatever, that the list of my saved videos looks like it should’ve been the soundtrack of Mars Attacks! or in the background of a Love, Death & Robots episode. I am honestly wondering, though, why those manifesting frequencies must sound like someone tried to make music with a fax machine and they’re not set to Adele’s new album. I get you, girl, I too know that it’s wrong. I also want to have fun. And I’d like it to go easy on me as well, for once.
Ever since that last post about my issues with emotions and vulnerability, I went down the path Elizabeth Gilbert took to soul-search in Eat, Pray, Love. Only hers involved enjoying pasta in Italy meditating in India, and falling in love in Indonesia. And mine, well… I don’t want to go into detail so let’s just say the one thing we have in common is the pasta.
Regardless, I managed to find something that resembles a soul in here (*points to chest*), and I am henceforth working under the assumption that you have to be born ginger not to have one. You know, since dying my hair fire engine (I’m starting to understand men — how the hell is that an actual colour?) didn’t help with sacking it or trading it to the Devil for eternal fame. It was a process though and involved everything from manifesting (TikTok) to crystals (also TikTok). Put like this… I guess it would help if I stop taking life advice from people line-dancing to Laxed? But, I figured — with that loose approach to things, they could teach me how to ‘lax&chill with no help by Netflix needed. If they could do it, what’s stopping me, right?
Wrong. If an adult actually goes ahead and posts a video of them doing an updated version of the chicken dance seriously, they either have sky-rocketing self-esteem, a profound lack of self-awareness or a 0-fucks-given state of Nirvana. Frankly, all three of them are aspirational states towards which we should all be striving. Unfortunately, I’m in proud possession of neither.
I have achieved a state, though, where I am far less tolerant of people’s bullshit, my own included. No, Karen, the world doesn’t owe you anything and you’re actually not a victim — merely have a victim mentality. Yes, Brad, your self-sabotage spectacle is getting boring and honestly? — I want tickets to another show. And you know what Miranda? All your failed relationships have one common denominator — you. So yeah, I guess you could say I’m maybe a tad angrier and more bitter than before. You know, all things that qualify me for the position of a proper adult. Oh that, and the bag of bags under the sink. Grown-ups, amIrite?
When I started writing this, I actually had no idea where I’m taking it. Halfway through — I still don’t, as you can see by the absence of sense I’m making. But that is another system update — go check if I give a damn. I realized I had been following a rule book I had set for myself and updated throughout my life with each and every new experience. A long list of shoulds and shouldn’ts according to which I lived my whooole life and made all decisions.
It was much like religious people follow the 10 commandments — “You shall not kill”, “Honour your mother and father”, “You shall not commit adultery” (remind Jake of that one since he slid into more than Janet’s DMs last week). Only mine were all rather the equivalent of “You shall shine rainbows out your bum”. “You shall not have body hair”. “You shall be pleasant”. Or one of my faves — “You shall not illegally stream videos online*”.
*exception: porn. Never pay for porn.
I was my own prisoner in a jail of my making and there was no one to pay my bail and get me out. And for a very long time, I hadn’t even realized I needed out. Boy oh boy when I did. I’m proud to say it didn’t involve any screaming (into the pillow doesn’t count) and no living beings were hurt in the process (now that I think of it, maybe some should’ve). But there was a lot of digging. Often, I felt like giving up. Sometimes, I’d start at the wrong place and just end up on the other side of the cell. Once, I even tried with an affirmation to convince myself I was out. But, I’d like to think, through the tunnel and the gutter (much like Andy in The Shawshank Redemption), I broke free (cue in Freddy). And the air was horrible. We need to do something about all that pollution, seriously.
Someone smart (still scrutinising — let’s see how he takes this when he reads it) once told me it was a good thing when I hadn’t written for a while because it meant that he hadn’t pissed me off. (Which, to give credit where it’s due, seems to be turning out true because he indeed pissed me off a bit and, here I am… writing. But I digress.). What actually happened though, is that once I threw the shackles, I found that I had no need to turn to my laptop to find a vent for all my suppressed sentiments. They were roaming out, free as a Dobby. What I thought to be the creepiest concept in the cosmos — facing my feelings, was actually as liberating as unlatching your bra after a very long day… and whatever the equivalent is for guys. Run Forest, run!
One of the most important things I learned in the process was asking myself why. I don’t know why it is not a question we pose to each other more often. For example, “Why are you so happy Katie, it’s a rainy fucking Monday in the middle of December when it’s pitch dark outside at 4 pm and there’s still a global pandemic almost 2 years later?!” — that sort of thing.
It is quite ironic that toddlers don’t miss out on any occasion to demonstrate their capacity to ask why over and over again, even to the most apparent of answers (mostly to those). They have more clarity and curiosity in life than any adult I’ve ever met who pretends to have the key of life for the mere reason they’ve been on Earth longer and got a job in a bank. Somehow, along the way, we get preoccupied with the whats and the whos and the hows so they become our auto-pilot, and we lose sight of why we keep on acting a certain way or saying those dumb things.
Asking why is important. It is the only way to get to the core of what drives you. Why do you feel the way you feel. Why do you do the things you do. Why are you hurt from the things which hurt you. Mostly, it’s got nothing to do with the things that happened, the circumstances you’re in and the people who caused you pain. It’s deep-rooted, something you’ve picked up along the road like a piece of trash someone irresponsibly threw out of the window of their car. But instead of disposing of it, you kept it. Why?
Oh, a special thanks and a big shoutout to Instagram for making my life easier by allowing us mere mortals to share a link via story, so I don’t have to make silly videos to put up a link anymore. ✌🏻
And thank you too, for reading, and to all — a good night.
