Despite Everything, She is Still Human

For awhile there, I had this barometer: if something felt scary to say, it was probably important to say it.

I have a really hard time differentiating between overthinking simple things and actual, legitimate feelings. I’m never sure if the sensation I’m experiencing is the result of overprocessing a simple thing, or if it’s an actual feeling that I should understand and address.

I realize that I’ve gotten out of the habit of saying things that are hard. Saying things that feel vulnerable. Putting out there the things I want.

I locked down. Went into self-preservation mode. A lot of things happened all at once, and I was so focused on getting through whatever the thing was that I didn’t have any energy to push myself. I was focused on survival.

Survival is a bleak way to live. Joy, passion, desire, creativity, the things about me that I love the most curled up into a ball and hid away behind some impenetrable wall inside myself.

It’s bleak, and it’s a feast for anxieties and brain weasels. And I’m pretty tired of things gnawing on my brain.

So I’m a little rusty. It’s been awhile since I felt like my words made sense. It’s been a little while since I felt like I could push myself to say… anything, really.

But I miss being fun and creative. Laughing easily. I miss being silly and fucking for hours and not running away from everything that felt good and allowing myself to exist in my body. Experience my body.

I miss the sharp sensation right before a butt plug goes in and I miss smiling, watching the people around me and wondering what’s about to happen and I miss fucking around and trying new things and being silly and not worrying about being perfect.

I miss my words. Pure, clean, honest, open words. Not hedged. Not parsed out, revised until they very eloquently say nothing at all. I want to give blowjobs in the kitchen and fuck in the shower and laugh while trying to tie something new as rope goes everywhere and be silly and goof off and trust my heart.

I want to fuck until walking feels strange. I want things that hurt and things that feel good. I want to be uncomfortable and laugh through it. I want to stop burying my face whenever buttstuff starts happening. I want to bottom for a gangbang.

I want to write more. Write again. Connect with that part of myself that sees the world in magical complexities and not a labyrinth of garbage fires. I want to pull out and tease the different threads of thought running through my mind until they make sense.

I want to feel, and know that I’m feeling something instead of assuming my emotions are the product of overthinking. I want to feel strong in my own body because I am, and not because of the value that strength has for other people.

Time to start opening back up again. Time to start remembering the things that make me the most of who I am and grab onto those, and not just focus on survival.

I need passion to thrive, and I am tired- so fucking tired- of locking passion away for the sake of making it through the day.

I am still a wildfire. I am still capable of laughing and loving and moving and feeling and being without caveat, without apology, without condition.

Because despite everything, I am still human.

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