To love yourself is to forget yourself.
To constantly try to assign yourself labels is to limit yourself, and to pathologize every single aspect of oneself is to know self-hatred in its highest capacity.
At some point, self-becoming becomes self-harm.
When will it be enough? Do you really think you’ll eventually know something as vastly intricate and ever-changing as the self? You’re plain stupid if you do. And maybe that’s harsh, but at least stupid people have determination.
I, for one, would love to know something other than myself. I would love to know less about me and more about living. I want to know someone the way I know every freckle on my face. I want to love something as much as I love picking myself apart, despite never being able to piece myself back together again afterwards.
Life doesn’t begin or end when you understand who you are, because that event never comes. The completely fruitless endeavor of self-discovery is a concept I find extremely laughable in our present age. Does no one listen? It’s been reiterated thousands of times over that you will never know the full entirety of yourself. Can you even hear me? Smart people are full of so much potential-limiting doubt. Why does no one listen to me? Why do people look at me as if I speak in tongues? These are questions they ask themselves. The one who thinks they know themself, the stupid one, will be the first to speak loudly and confidently about anything, no prerequisite knowledge needed.
Sometimes I feel as if I am cowering in a corner like a scared animal, and then I realize. I am only having a conversation with someone. The mere thought of someone giving a good-natured attempt at getting to know me scares me so deeply, I see every kind-hearted gesture of someone trying to understand me as an assassination attempt (yet I cry and I cry, I yell at god, the sky, myself. “Why doesn’t anyone understand me?”). What’s there to be afraid of? Someone knowing me? I don’t even know myself; how could someone else possibly possess the knowledge of who I am in my entirety? No one will ever know, and that scares me, too. Some day, I will venture forth from my dark corner where I cower in fear of a mere shadow. Some day, I won’t bear my teeth and growl when someone gets close. Some day, I will realize that the shadow is just that, and past the shadow, out of the darkness, lies the light. And in the light, people will see me, they will know me, I will be given a chance at love, at life, at an existence I won’t look back at with sad tears in my eyes. I am not a victim. I am a survivor. I am a survivor of many things, but mostly I am a survivor of one of the biggest mistakes one can make: trying to know yourself. I caught a glimpse of myself and lived to tell the tale. I didn’t see much, but I saw fear. Fear is purple; it floats around a person like a noxious gas, and smells like one, too. I was Chornobyl painted in lilac. I want to forget that, I want to forget who I am, to set the pathology aside and learn more about living and loving.
Phrenectomy 