A (Re)Introduction

Hey, Medium.

Long time no fucking see, huh?

It’s weird to think that we used to talk to each other every day. Well, to be precise, I mostly did the talking, and sometimes you gave me money. Nothing to complain about, as far as I was concerned.

Then somewhere along the way, we lost each other. Not to pull an “it’s not you, it’s me” on you, but it really was me. The truth is that I got a little too invested in other stuff. My life was filled with classic hobbies for a Gen Z gal on the verge of a mental breakdown really — reading, baking, yoga, a small little crippling addiction to self-harm in every possible form you can imagine.

Oh, and I’m sorry to tell you, but you were kind of part of the problem too. I mean, writing a review after every single movie I watched? That’s kind of weird, man. You should do something about users like me. I mean, it’s great if blogging is your job, God knows I wish it was mine too, but for the rest of us? Just tell us to chill the fuck out for a sec, will you?

And yes, I do know that you’re a blogging platform and not a unique individual with a mind of your own. Just pretend that you find me unbelievably witty and unique and that everything I say makes perfect sense for a second. Thanks.

See, when most people think of self-harm, they think of pills, burns, cuts, scars, crying fits and black and white Tumblr pictures. And sure, there was some of that when I thought no one was looking. But, if you were already here in Fall 2019, you may recall that I have seen Joker, and am therefore aware that we live in a society — and when you reeeally want to hurt yourself while existing in a public space, it has to be done in a sneaky way.

Refusing nights out because you’re not cool enough to have friends. Leaving half your plate’s content when you really want the full thing. Taking on other people’s work when you can barely keep up with yours. Sneaking out in the dark and exercising for hours on end to hit an arbitrary number of steps before bed. Saying yes when you want to say no, and no when you want to yes.

And, you guessed it, never letting yourself genuinely enjoy a piece of media without forcing yourself to write some inane piece of writing about it.

For some people, lockdown meant being able to reconnect with themselves. For me, it just meant that I was free to be openly at war against what little happiness remained in me, and that no one would be able to stop me from ruining myself.

I’ll spare you the deets, cause you really don’t want them. But if you have to picture something, try to think of someone who is chronically angry, chronically hungry, chronically sad, and most of all really fucking tired.

So, you get it — we had to take a break, you and I. But the truth is, and you may feel a little betrayed by that part, that I never stopped writing.

I don’t know why you would be surprised by that. After all, writing was always kind of my thing. I don’t know if you’d noticed, but I’m not really good at talking. I stumble on basic sentences, simple words get stuck in my throat and I feel so at peace with silence that it makes other people uncomfortable. But writing? Writing’s easy. Well, easier, at least. No one cares that I’m myself when I’m writing, or maybe they care just the right amount. I get to be a tab on someone’s screen or a letter in someone else’s hands, and then they get to decide if they want it to matter to them or not. It’s a quiet conversation in a sense, and that’s always been my favourite kind of speaking.

So yes, I was writing, even when I was away from you. Mostly for myself, or whoever is simultaneously smart enough to hack my laptop and dumb enough to think it would contain anything remotely interesting. Then I moved on to other publications. Gained some confidence along the way with every nice word of feedback. Thought that maybe, possibly, I might have some kind of future where I don’t completely hate my life and can do what I love most for a living.

I know what you’re thinking. If the other publications are so much better, why am I back? Well, see, the world of journalism and online writing is pretty ruthless, and it can make you feel kind of worthless. So I may sometimes write things I like a lot, and that no one wants anything to do with. And I think some of them deserve their bit of spotlight too.

But most importantly, there are these pieces of writing that don’t really belong anywhere because they’re so deeply me — like false letters to a blogging site written in the dark as a desperate attempt to distract myself from what I’m feeling. Written in a single sitting, no edits, no proofreading, no anything. Just me and a brightly lit screen that probably isn’t helping my eyesight.

So I hope you’ll excuse the absence, and that you’ll accept this version of me. If I were tempted to make a dramatic statement about this I would delete or privatise my earlier posts, but the truth is that I sometimes do still make a few cents out of it, and that I’m not committed to my bit enough to deny myself a can of fancy chemicals. But this is still me (see, my new profile pic doesn’t even have make up on! That’s a statement if I’ve ever seen one!) in a way that I rarely expressed online before. You’re free to stay or not. The truth is that the nights get lonely at times, and that everyone feels a little too distant to text out of the blue — and that it’s nice to have something to turn to when the alternative would be to hurt myself into feeling something.

Don’t know if you missed me - but it’s good to see you, anyways.