Nobody’s Built Like You, You Design Yourself…

In my many, many…many years on social media I have seen the above quotation countless times. From the inspirational teen account on Tumblr to the “just girl stuff” twitter accounts, from the brujas, the spiritualists, the movers, and the shakers. At some point, somewhere, someone has either said the exact quote or something to the affect.
And there’s something about it that always strikes me. Makes me roll my eyes and mutter “tuh, what a cliche.” Or simply scroll by quickly because if I scroll fast enough that means I didn’t see it. It makes me squirm because it just got a little hot in here all of a sudden, is anyone else hot? No? Just me? Ok.
“Comparison is the thief of joy.”
Ok. You got me.
I am Sashi, mother of Diva, First of Her Name, Queen of Comparing, Keeper of Insecurities. And I find myself comparing my experiences, my looks, my body, my money, my intellect, my talents…to everyone. Every chance I get.
And I always, without fail, come up short. What I have discovered, relatively recently, is that comparison has become a thief of my joy (and probably always has been). My life ain’t easy. I recognize that it could be worse. It could always be worse. But I have reasons to be joyful and appreciative and full. Yet my brain synapses have convinced me that I need to get to some inexplicable, incomparable place, so I won’t need to compare; I’ll just be.
This might be normal, but it ain’t right.
Comparing myself to others, whether I “measure up” or not (what does “measure up” even mean?), doesn’t actually do anything for me. I’m not looking at people for inspiration, I’m looking at people to find new and creative ways to be cruel to myself. And it doesn’t make me work harder or faster or smarter. It just makes me feel bad.
She’s so pretty…I’ll never be that pretty.
Her body is so dope…my body will never be that dope.
He is such a good writer…I’ll never write that well.
They are so smart…I’ll never be that smart.
They can do it because they’re young…I’m too old.
She, they, him, them, …I…I…I…I
All these thought processes do is leave me in a tail spin of insecurity where I pile them on top of each other until I break the foundation that is me. It is part of my self destructive patterns of which I am trying to break free. But you can’t break free from your restraints until you acknowledge the welts on your wrists.

Nobody’s built like me. I’ve been given the gift to design myself, over and over again. To shift directions. I’ve honed skills at kitchen tables and I’ve made something out of nothing.
Because I haven’t produced a film like this person or written a book like that one, doesn’t mean I won’t. It just means I haven’t. Yet. Too many times I allowed the fact that I was losing these imaginary races, that existed in a reality that I created, to throw me off course. Yet time and again, with skinned knees and dirt under my fingernails, I’ve clawed my way back. Back to arts I enjoy. To relationships I cherish. To passions that inspire and excite me. It’s not through sheer will, but through having my back against a wall, or through the people who value me feeding me what I needed to keep going. Or because fuck this shit, I ain’t no punk, b.
Sash don’t run, Sash stands and fights, Sash’s a soldier, Sash been fightin’ all her life.
I’m learning, slowly and deliberately, that I’m not running a race against anyone else. Just me.
And I will not lose.

