Who the fuck am I?

Who the fuck am I? Well, that’s the million dollar question, isn’t?

Fun fact: I’m afraid of the answer. I have this idea of the person I should be, who I want to be, who I try to be… But I’ve never really stopped and taken a good long hard look at myself to figure out whether or not I fit the part.

I know I want to be useful in this world. I don’t care the least about «becoming someone», but I do want to accomplish something. Something that I could look back on from my deathbed, and dissolve my regrets.

I also know that I don’t want to be on my deathbed to decide whether or not my time on earth has been put to good use or not. I need to have a reason to get out of bed every single damn day. It’s the curse of depression: if I don’t have a reason to wake up, then why would I?

If I don’t have a reason to live, then why live at all? It’s so exhausting. What could possibly make all of these trials worth their trouble?

That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it. Why am I so incapable of asking myself that simple question: who are you?

Why am I so incapable of hearing that question, and thinking about what the answer might be. Who am I? Not to others, but to myself. Don’t tell me you’re the funny one, you’re the leader, you’re the capable one, you’re the eldest, you’re this, and that…

It’s not «what» are you, it’s WHO are you. Not to others, not in this society, not in theory. Who are you?

Help yourself, for a change

It’s funny because the reason why I am so good at helping others, is precisely because I know «who» they are. Through their speech, their non verbal communication, their eyes, their laughs and tears, their confessions, their aspirations, I figure out what they want, what they need.

This is my secret to know just what that person might need to hear, at that precise moment. I’ve stopped doing that, though. It’s freaky when someone you barely know comes up with the exact words you needed to hear. I’m not your guardian angel nor am I your soulmate, sent from destiny. I’m just good at reading emotions.

Everyone’s emotions, except my own. I discard them, because… Well I don’t really have a good excuse for that one. I guess, because reading into my own emotions would allow me to know precisely what to tell myself, and what to do in order to improve my life, my well being.

But then if I don’t act on it, or if I don’t succeed, it’s my own fault, right?

Blessed are the ignorant, as they say. If I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I can’t fail at helping myself.

This is why I have no clue as to who I actually am, this is why I dedicate every fiber of my being towards others: not out of altruism, but out of fear.

I’m afraid

I’m afraid. This is the main emotion that’s been blocking my throat all these years.

I’m afraid of failing. Failing, failing myself, failing others.
I’m afraid of hurting. Hurting myself, hurting others.
I’m afraid of disappointing. Disappointing myself, disappointing others.
I’m afraid of being powerless.
I’m afraid of being useless.
I’m afraid of drowning: in work, in sorrows, in regrets, in fears.

I’m afraid of staying afraid forever.

Who the fuck am I, you ask? A lot braver than I give myself credit for. I know that. Deep down, I know that I am stronger than all these fears.

See? That is exactly what I needed to hear.

It’s also the truth.

I am braver, stronger, more determined and more inspired than I’ve allowed myself to be so far. My fears don’t define me. It’s time I start defining myself without them.

From this day on: I am unafraid.

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