On Doing The Most
Sometimes I fear that I am too much.
I trust too much, I speak too much, I take up too much space. I think too much. Much too much.
I’ve come to terms with the reality of this, the actuality. And yet, the fear remains. Overcoming anxiety, or in my case the self-diagnosed Too Muchness, means savoring moments of clarity — clarity meaning alignment. Where and when my rational and romantic consummate and conceive momentary catharsis.
And as my endorphins release, orgasmically, I breathe (…stretch, shake, let it go — Ma$e). Too much becomes not enough, and so the cycle goes.
I voyeuristically lose myself in the fantasy of what self-love looks like, sounds like, tastes like — in the full sensory experience transcending the myopia of corporality. Bouts of depression and anxiety transform me into an insufferable know-it-all. I hide in an attempt to subject the abundant vitriol and self-doubt that spins and circulates throughout me.
I have passionately hated myself.
Like consumption, it was prolific. It was prolific and tears through inconspicuous facades. It is prolific and tears and consumes.
I slip in and out of past and present tense, simultaneously separating a past version of myself from who I am now, all the while knowing that who I am could not exist without who I was. Repressing inner battles with mental health as though they were a leaky pipe or a rusty cog. Quick fixes, don’t touch it if it ain’t broke, one simple step up the prophetic mountain top of self-acceptance.
However, Sadness is alive, healthy and well. She augments my highs and exacerbates my lows (Inside Out really fucked me up).
She is too much, I am too much.