Sometimes I sense how trapped my bones feel inside my body — pressed against muscle and veins, organs thumping, squeezing against the edge. Sometimes I have the urge to cough up bits of myself to give them a little room. Living fossils lodged inside of me, giving me form.

I’m not comfortable these days. I didn’t realize it was getting to me until an enlightening therapy session. I sensed the rods inside of me hiding — they burn fearfully now at my mentioning. They come up for air when it’s safe to, otherwise enjoying their time inside the dark warmth holding them in place. My little fossil.

What does it mean to be yourself? I don’t know yet, but I’ve come up with a series of ideas.

* Not overthinking. Blank brain, full Id, do do do.

* Overthinking. Enjoying the drum of piecing it together, rapid from one idea to the next, returning, rehashing, restitching over stitches to nail down the sticky stuff.

* Melting into the background. Letting the dark blanket you in the unknown. Feeling the soft rocking of the boat beneath you, eyes shut, the whir of wind and water your guide.

* Dialing in. Taking in every detail of the world in 4K technicolor. Feeling the texture of the sidewalk in your teeth, smelling the glittering rays of light hitting every surface —full sensory overload to never miss a beat of life.

* Playing the game of conversation. Tossing the tongue back and forth. Building on the bit until it flops over like Babylon’s tower, leaving us in giggling disarray.

* Holding another’s hand and heart. Taking a deep breath without saying a word. Being on your way.

* Putting on the costume, dancing around the living room, imagining yourself as the star, the villain, the lover. Putting on a new face when you’re done.

* Stripping off the costume. Then your underwear. Then your skin. Unwinding the muscly bits, the string of vessels and nerves. Putting your bones under hot water, soaking them in a bath. Letting them grow elastic. Lying out to dry into the shape you fall into.

* Being all of these things at once. Then none of them. Second by second, minute by minute, because you are alive and fragile and mosaic.

I’m over being uncomfortable in my skin and done with soothing myself into the calmest, coziest state. I am both/and/either/or depending on what the day suits. I am sitting with the anxiety to listen to it and then act. We are co-creators of my experience, all aiming to curate the perfect ambience. Both of us failing to do so.

If my body was a party hall, my soul would be the music, and the fractures of myself would be my party guests shifting in and out of playing host. ‘Where’s the silverware again?’‘Let me grab the chips. ’‘Can we listen to Club Classics?’‘Oh, how about When I’m In Your Arms?’ We sit up, lie down, roll in the grass, run around the deck. We bustle and bustle, arguing over whether this is a kickback or a rager. Either way, we are dancing and greening out on the balcony.

In an effort to grow, I strained my back taking on too much (I mean this literally and metaphorically), so I’m pivoting into becoming softer, recovering from the overload by underloading, presumably. It always feels like you’re taking on significantly less than you should once you unburden yourself. You get so used to struggling with the weight, how it feels to constantly hold tension, that you forget there’s a better way. Always a better way.

In my dream last night, I was someone else. A Sotce looking white woman traveling through Eastern Europe using trains and violating the rules of a region that required women to shave their heads. Some people hid their hair in hoods, but it didn’t work. She arrived at the border with burns on her face despite her silky brunette hair intact. The border patrol was a panel of similar-looking white women, all four intelligent and biting as they assessed the main character's actions in the country she was leaving. They deemed her unworthy of escape, dooming her to gendered persecution. She turned back, accepting her fate as she rode in an elevator with an older disabled man and a young girl. As she talked to the young girl, essentially telling her to stand her ground, she realized she had let those women demean her without a fight. She returned, and the panel laughed, assuming she wanted another round of lashings. Instead, they engaged in a discussion of ideas, sharing their backgrounds, dreams, and ideals. She became one of their own and escaped.

If we consider what my subconscious may have been trying to say, there’s a big theme around how we handle judgment. When we are deemed unworthy, pushed to the side, or away from where we’d like to be, we can either see that as truth, or show up with our full selves. You cannot arrive meekly to cross to the other side and free yourself, especially when you’ve put so much effort into maintaining who you are (& especially when you’ve been persecuted for it). To show up at the edge of freedom with the expectation that staying small will keep you safe will trick the doorway into assuming you can’t handle the other side. The world will treat you how you show you should be treated.

I sense it is time to stop hiding to get through enemy territory and to be proud of who I’ve managed to continue being despite it all. Yes, I feel weaker and more gentle than I'd like to admit, but I've also stayed surprisingly soft and deeply loving. It is time to show up and ask those who are ready to do the same. The very people you fear judgment from may be looking for a person just like you if you’d only show them who that was.

Has that ever happened to you? You try to befriend someone who’s projecting a persona, and you only get along once the facade comes down. Time and time again, I’ve found that to be what keeps me from bonding with people in both directions. I will integrate this and forget it, and reintegrate it all my life, I suppose.

I’m not saying that this alone liberates you from judgment and persecution. Time, place, nuance. All I know is what I know must happen for me right now. Here’s to trying.

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