Stream of Consciousness: On Self Forgiveness, A Personal Narrative

I wake up in the morning to a bitter taste in my mouth, the result of exhaustion and the way I fell asleep reading and never brushed my teeth. I cringe because I already know that I’m late. Apparently a sixth alarm really would have been necessary because everything in me is so tired. I begin to question what it would mean for my grade, and my knowledge, if I skip just this one class this one time. As always, I encourage myself out of bed- don’t forget how lost you will be if you don’t go. Don’t forget that you literally talk to no one and will not be able to get the notes. Don’t forget that you have yet to manage your stupid insecurities about talking to people..I almost let the voice continue but I swing myself out of bed. Sometimes that is enough for the stream of thought to stop. You are shy, it’s okay, it happens. The chants of my life are repeated and make my stomach hurt. They are as redundant as my personality. I tell the same stories because they are the only ones I have to tell. I do not want to fall prey to the incalculable dullness of the person I am, I want to create myself to be better but I am so tired and my creative energy is so dependent upon the full night sleeps I cannot get no matter how hard I try.
I am awake and conscious, slow to start as I like to call it. I pull on clothes and practice the art of mocking myself by putting on makeup. I do it because people are noticing me, I say, but really I do it because otherwise the insecurity of appearances will get me. As if the static nature of appearances even matters, it really never does. I will get caught in the rain and my straightened hair will devolve into frizziness and my makeup will run and I will be just as ugly as I was before but this time I will know it. I will not be in denial. That stream of thought clogs my brain. I burn my hand on the hair straightener. The light is too dim to see clearly, that’s my secret- denial runs deep in my veins.
I try not to tell myself I am a failure. I encourage myself that I even got out of bed “Congratulations, you are almost functioning like a normal human being, way to go.” The nice voice in my head is really more of a mocking voice. I should know better by now to stop trying.
I tell myself I am a failure because I don’t love people in general, because I love so infrequently. Because I have so few friends, because sometimes I’m really terrible to the friends I have left. I tell myself I am a failure because I’m not particularly anything- not funny, nor smart, nor athletic. I try to praise myself for what is average, instead I linger on what is not. The grasping effect of wanting what I will not pursue.
I tell myself I am a failure because I stared at the ceiling for three hours last night while I was trying to fall asleep. How easily I crumble to the ideals of perfection. Anxiety loves me because I am weak and I acknowledge this weakness without being able to destroy it.
This is my narrative.
But you see, I am learning that at the center of happiness is knowing that you are a worthy person. And the birth of this feeling is through forgiveness. So maybe it’s okay that approximately three people in this world actually care about me. And maybe it’s okay that I will get a few B’s this semester, that sometimes I can’t catch up and I just feel stupid. I forgive myself for the naps I need to take and the sleeping aids I have used too often. I forgive myself for writing this instead of studying. I forgive myself for the vicious cycles and I inhale deeply.
No exhale, not yet.


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