"Lacking", lacking is the only word sufficient in explaining the specific sort of agony that comes with the brain I've been so graciously granted. Emotions, thoughts, abilities, I lack them all. The years go by and pieces of myself dry up more and more before eventually falling off, never to return. I constantly feel myself fading, but the state I slowly fade into is not an unfamiliar one. It very well be my natural state, the state I was born into and relished in until something drove me to desire my very own human suit. I picked out and wore many such "human suits" throughout my life, and I wore them well. I wore my wonderful suits for so long that I'd almost convince even myself that it was my very own skin. Yet, the lacking persisted, it festers and grows and leaks into the folds, seams and cracks of my beloved suit until it's no longer fit to wear. For a moment or two it feels as if my skin has begun to flake off and I panic, til I remember it was never my nor anyones skin to begin with. It's just a suit, a synthetic suit. I gently take the suit off and discard it, patiently waiting for my tailor to sew me a new one, I never quite know how the next one will look or feel or fit, that's up to the tailor, not up to me.
This is something I wrote in a notebook while I was going through a particularly distressing dissociative episode. I found it while I was cleaning my room, I don't remember writing it and could only connect the dots between that time period and this paragraph due to the contents of the text. I thought it would be interesting to share. I'm not entirely sure who or what the "tailor" is meant to represent, my two theories is that it either represents the people around me or that I am referring to my own subconscious process of creating an identity, which I apparently don't feel in control of.
Something else I find interesting is how critical of the writing itself I am, I'm embarrassed posting this because I feel as if the writing is not up to my standards. It's funny because this is certainly something I wrote when I was feeling completely out of it and wanted to write down my stream of thoughts. I don't even remember it, I'm sure I wasn't anywhere near the right head space to think about the quality of what I'm writing, yet I'm internally criticizing it as if it is published, polished work of mine.
