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.
“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?