Tag: personal essays

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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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Surrender to What?

Fragments from late winter 2026

I’ve never had a relationship that changed how I lived. I rarely am challenged by them. People usually bow down eagerly, voluntarily. They just prefer to witness.

I’m resistant to change how I spend my days. Following through on connections. How I spend my time. Secrecy, privacy, sharing my days. I don’t share much. I don’t commit to commitment. I don’t like to be bounded or possessed. I want to own all of me. Be in complete control.

I feel tied up, irritated, annoyed. Obligations make me feel out of control. Like my choice is being taken away. That’s why I run from certain expectations. Outside of family I don’t want people to expect things from me. I feel suffocated, manipulated, and rejected for who I am.

People tell me that I’m too private. That I tolerate too much. They say they can’t read me. They don’t know their place in my life. I’m judgemental. I see the good too much. I see something worth loving.

I don’t listen to constructive criticism or perceptions of me from people who aren’t curious of me. I intellectualize my fear of closeness. My commitment fears. I make excuses for others’ behaviors. I empathize too much. Any little thing I find wrong.

I was on my own way too early and way too long to believe long-term relationships are nourishing and safe enough to have.

I can hear how I’m perceived but I don’t care. I don’t wallow or fret. I continue to be.

Why is this the way? Why does my body crave this? Accountability, expectations, surrender. Surrender to what? A bunch of confused souls? Beings not to be trusted because they don’t trust themselves.

Y makes my body feel safe so it must be right. Right?

X says he’s going away. He says he feels like I abandoned him. He guessed I don’t care for him.

I ache. I don’t want to lose us, but I don’t want him. Well maybe here and there, not how we were.

X appeals to my shadow. I feel he wants me to beg him to stay. I won’t. His heart is broke and I can feel it. I don’t want to discard him.

He isn’t a good friend though and he tries as a lover but he isn’t reliable.

X understands my pain. He’s seen my spirit. I don’t need his company, but I want it. His adoration, his obsession. I feel like I’m real for a moment, I want to exist in that. Being somebody to somebody. Having physical comfort, sweetness.

X has me on a pedestal. He idolizes me. He knows little about me.

I’ll miss him, how he made me laugh, and wrote me poems. How he thought about me. Yearned for me, wants me. He is deceptive though and manipulative and he lies and he’s there when it’s convenient. It’s hurtful because I question if he really wanted me. I create fantasy and make believe. I get lost in it and forget what’s real.

I did not want to spend Valentines together. I did not want to keep rejecting him cause my heart isn’t in it anymore.