Tag: identity

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The Illusion of Going Somewhere

I like to run. Literally, metaphorically. I like the illusion of going somewhere and the reality of going nowhere.

I’ve been running away since early adolescence. My soul can breathe with even just the idea of distance. I feel the most free. I can think and say and feel the silence. There are no expectations of me. I don’t need to be anything. Being somewhere isn’t a concern.

The emptiness fills me with potential. I wonder who else I can be. I don’t care about where I’m going or actually becoming that person. My imagination is enough. When I run, my body loosens, my spirit sings and rejoices. I notice everything. I can listen and hear.

The idea of a clean slate, reinventing myself but staying the same. I need to believe that I can get away. I need to know I’m not trapped. That I can disappear and come back on my own time, when I’m ready. Throw myself to the wind any time I like. That I am a free woman, that I belong to me. That I’m not bound to the words used to describe me, to who I was in familiar places. I am constantly changing.

I want to be unpredictable. I want people to wonder and experience irritation with me. I get off on revealing their own insecurities. I find it pleasurable to be irresponsible. I look back fondly on the times when I didn’t care about anything but what I wanted to care about. I had no obligations. There’s a freedom in not caring about approval or being understood.

Who do I think I am? She doesn’t belong here.

I want to leave them. I want curiosity more than I want to be known. I love feeling me, being the most familiar, the most connected. Being alone and in myself. Society doesn’t compliment me like solitude does.

I like to run and feel my body, to feel my power, my fight. It reminds me that I can survive if I wanted to. That I can betray myself if I wanted to. I can conquer myself if I want to. Be my own master.

Maybe I need to know that I can get away.

I’m not in a good headspace.

I allow myself to crawl my consciousness into the small spaces. Spaces filled with sorrow, fear, pain, all the bad things I’ve grown to enjoy. I can easily get trapped in there. It can become a womb.

Fuel for my creativity as I express these intense experiences. As I sob over distant family, of the confusion of a lover. I want to feel heavy, grounded. Rooted in something.

This lingering is ancestral. It lasts for as long as it needs to.

This is where I am. A space where all my unpleasant memories play. Where my wickedness shamelessly starts to show. Where I know better but don’t do better. Spaces I can replay, curl up in, and cry. For days, I’ll have crying spells. I feel heavy, like I can’t breathe.

I want to starve myself of what sustains me. I want to be a sinful person. Give up.

I don’t need to be fixed. I don’t think there’s a solution. I just need someone to be there for me through it.

I rock myself back and forth, attempting to soothe me. I’m on the verge of tears.

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February 3, 2026

When I imagine being harmlessly dominated, the first thing I feel is a sense of safety. To be controlled, to willingly relinquish control. I feel excitement and thrill to be powerless, weaker than.

My whole life I’ve had to manage, lead, be the bigger person, exercise wisdoms, discipline. I’ve had to parent my parents, friends, lovers, my son, myself.

I want to be a child but it’s all over.

A child with little to no choice, not a care, simply existing.

My childhood was severed.

I remember when I decided to place the burden upon myself. Tending to my father and his ocean of emotions. Suppressing my sadness to make room and hold his. I was in charge of how he felt, and when he was in pain it was my obligation to make him feel better.

It was an emotional rollercoaster I was born to ride, I suppose.

I was born in his boiling waters, birthed onto the old pavement painted by our bloodline.

Lost without.

I grew up and hit a point where control gave me comfort. I quickly realized I couldn’t control the world outside of me. So I hyperfixated on controlling myself.

I gave myself rules, an underdeveloped idea of structure. I studied and sorted through the labyrinth of my being.

I think this, paired with me choosing similar lovers, kept me silent. Holding their emotions. Holding, healing, tending.

I saw my dad in them all, so it was natural.

They are my shadow, opposite, docile, timid. I’m protective over them. They let me choose. They let me go and take me back.

Unfortunately, the damage is an open wound as a result of all the sacrifice.

I don’t let people hold me.

I don’t trust trust.

I don’t trust care.

All of my moves are calculated. I think it all through to make sense. I feel things out, follow each path out in my mind.

I don’t like surprises and not knowing. I need mental preparation.

I won’t let myself fall, or will I never put my guard down or go wild in the arms of another?

Only alone do I surrender.

Surrender could look like placing my heart back on my sleeve.

Maybe I’d become an emotional drunk, embrace being a femme fatale.

Maybe I won’t have any friends.

Maybe I’d detach and float away and up.

I’d be sad and heavyhearted all the time.

I’d cry. Wail. Beg.

It’s a slippery slope.

I fear I must stay tense or I’ll lose myself entirely.

Whatever that means.

If I lose myself and become other—was I even me?

My whole being is tired of being in control.

I asked him if he wanted to know about my day.

He said he did, as he was intrigued by me.

I sat silent and changed the subject.

I’m not so good at sharing me.