People, Like Me

13th October 2017

“Authentic self” is a phrase I learnt in 2015 with a seemingly very well balanced university counselor. She used words like “genuine”, and “identity”, along with some choice analogies to parallel my life choices, which were very obviously driven by some “deep psychological wounds”. Again, all her words, not mine. I really liked her words though. Her Japanese heritage and the cool text tattooed on her forearm made all of her insight seem so much more legitimate.

I don’t like it when people say “authentic self” now. It’s everywhere. There are just so many authentic selves; and my authentic self is overwhelmed by the overwhelming number of authentic selves. It could be because I’m a bit possessive of it, like, “I knew what this meant before it was cool.” But I think it’s more the fact that it just sounds a bit wanky. Like, good wanky, I guess. The kind of wanky that makes you feel better about yourself, but still wanky. Was it wanky two years ago? You know what, probably; but I thought I was really cool back then, so it was obviously cool simply because I, ultra cool Meg, knew what it meant.

I am not cool now. I am very, very not cool. I wasn’t cool back then either, really, but that false sense of confidence was all I had in terms of identity. And that is absolutely fine. It served its purpose, up until my brain was like “hahahah, let’s switch things up a bit.” It’s done that my entire life, the little bitch.

Anyway, back to identity, and me not being cool.

For a very big portion of my life, I’ve been isolated. My mental illness caused me to miss a lot of school; and when I was at school I’d spend all of my time in the school counselor’s office. When I wasn’t in the school counselor’s office, I was crying in class, because there was just so much bullshit going on in my tiny brain. Naturally, I was bullied because I cried (kids are savage). I also had buckteeth, which didn’t help (but I’ll grant those taunts, I looked like a little horse).

The whole me not going to school, because my brain is a fucktard thing, carried on throughout high school. The bullying thing also carried on, because I had some intense orthodontic work going on, my eyes were too big, I was smart, and I did choir. Things got better as I progressed into the senior years, and realised that the dickheads could go fuck themselves. And I made some excellent friends, who are still very excellent friends right now.

But since leaving school, and sporadically moving around the country in search of a home, I have been extremely lonely. I’ve met some definitely cool people, and I can say I’ve done all of these things; but my mind hasn’t allowed me to settle anywhere I can connect with people like me. (My authentic self hasn’t found similar authentic selves, which kind of cancels out the authentic – but you get the idea). Sure, everything blowing up in my face last year was probably one of the best things to have happened in my short life.

But I have endured all of the demolitions and reconstructions in my solitude. Yes: doctors, psychiatrists, counselors, psychologists, nurses have come, gone and stayed to offer the necessary support. Mum and Dad have always been my financial rocks, because I haven’t been able to hold down a job (thanks, parents). My friends have even spectated from the sidelines, throwing me flowers, and offering me delicious assortments of milk and dark chocolates.

I’m still picking up all of the pieces alone, though. And I know nobody can pick up the pieces for me; but last year, my cousin said I should go to the National Young Writers Festival, and then I said, “yeah, alright.” So, last weekend I went to the National Young Writers Festival. And I try to never expect things anymore. And my medication was being awful. And I was nervous about meeting people in the state that I was in, because I really don’t feel pleasant when drugs hijack my ability to walk. But the thing is, I met a whole bunch of misfits who were picking up their own pieces, and it was just like a picking up pieces party. I heard from other people with disabilities, atypical brains, mental illnesses, queer people, feminists, activists, cartoonists, poets, bloggers, other people from rural Australia, different ethnicities, religions. And they were all talking about the things that I’ve been thinking about throughout my entire isolation.

On the last night, I plucked up the courage to go to the sea baths after the Late Night Readings. People got drunk, and went skinny-dipping, and talked in big groups, and I felt uncomfortable. My tactic though, is to target the person sitting by themselves, and go in for the conversational kill. I don’t actually kill them though; unless the conversation is so painful they feel like they’re “literally dying”. I streamlined towards a guy who was looking wistfully over the ocean, and said to him, “Hello, I’m Meg. I’m very awkward.” To which he responded with, “Hi Meg, I’m Sebastian. Me too. Actually, everyone here is. We just ignore it.”

How fucking good is that?

These were people like me. To feel not alone without fear of never feeling it again was the best feeling I’ve had since I was very, very small. People say things like, “I’ve found my tribe,” and to be honest that’s wanky too. But this entire blog post is wanky, so I’m going to use it anyway. Actually, nah, I’m just going to say I’ve found people like me.