I know who I am. And I know who I want to be. And the two are as opposed to each other as my mania and depression because I can escape my bipolar nowhere.
I guess I thought that if I spent long enough pretending I actually am who I want to be then eventually I would become that person. Like if I spent enough time and energy helping others and making others feel good, then eventually I’d be someone who makes people feel good. But I’m not. I’m still me. I still hurt everyone in my sphere. I remember a then best friend telling me that the only thing I do well is hurt people, and it’s true. It always has been and I know always will be.
Today a friend jokingly called me out for being a Ravenclaw who wishes she were a Hufflepuff, not an actual Hufflepuff. And it’s true. I aspire to be one and I pretend that I am, but no amount of airs and graces will ever change the truth.
I’m a [maiden name] and no matter how long I sign myself [married name] it’s not who I am. It’s not my dna. I am who I was born as and I will never change. Why do I try? Why do I pretend?
thebadgerspath.com 