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One more day

Until I see my therapist

I just need to make it through the next 21 hours.

21 hours and I’ll get help.

It’s been hard lately. So hard.

I’ve started feeling like a fraud again. An impostor. Someone who doesn’t know anything she’s talking about.

There’s no reason for it. It just happens. The voices in my head get too loud, and I try to drown them out in music.

“Are you okay?”

My dad shoots me a message from work.

“Struggling.”

That’s all I can say. I don’t wanna make him worried. I don’t want my sibling to be worried about me, either. So I hold everything in and try to wait until my next therapist appointment.

I don’t want to complain to the people I love, so I hold it in.

I complain on Medium sometimes. And then invalidate myself for having those complaints.

You see, the thing is, I’ve realized that a lot of American culture and assimilation has caused a constant revision and erasure of my identity. Of who I am, what I value, and who I love.

Everything seems as though it was designed to silence me from the start.

If I voice a concern, I’m being whiny.

If I stand up for myself, I’m being bitchy.

If I refuse to have sex, I’m being a prude.

If I have sex, I’m being a slut.

If I choose to act, I’m being impulsive.

If I choose not to act, I’m condoning improper behavior.

So much of how I was raised was to brush aside the microaggressions I faced in society. And they don’t hold a light to what other people have been through.

My life isn’t in jeopardy because of the color of my skin.

I might run into a few people who give me weird looks or judge me differently, make assumptions about me due to my physical appearance, or treat me in a cringeworthy way. I can’t control any of that.

But I can control how I choose to maintain my composure. I can choose to try and hold my head high even when I know I, too, make mistakes. That apologies rarely suffice for the wrongs I’ve committed, even if they were for the “right” reasons.

Everything’s blurred into a grayscale of ethics and philosophy in my mind. I try to search through the fog within my mind and cling to what I know to be true: that my birth name is Christine, I’m 23 years old, and I write.

I don’t even know if I enjoy writing anymore, but I do it anyway.

I’m living: I eat, I breathe, I blink, I sleep. I wake up and repeat.

But do I feel alive?

That, I’m not as sure of.

There are times I don’t know who I am or what I stand for, but I pray someday I’ll find the guidance and wisdom to achieve what I set out to do.

My body is my own, neither defined nor appraised by those around me.

I’m me.

That’s all I can be.

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