the summer i became deeply self-aware

feeling alive and deeply unhinged in 90 degree weather

“I sighed and August arrived.”

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At the beginning of the summer, I shared with my therapist that a goal of mine was to reconnect my head to my body.

For a long time, I’ve floated like a detached head and watched my body function. I can describe to you how I feel. I can tell you why I do what I do. Why people act the way they act.
But I can’t tell you where I feel it in my body.

A TikTok user described it well: Idk I’m just the narrator and don’t ask me again.

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June

It’s been a few weeks since I’ve been home from France. It sucks.

I feel out of step with almost everyone, but assumed it was just post-vacation depression.

It was my first time out of the country and my first time away from home. The time difference was kicking my ass.

My friends are both in committed relationships, and for a few weeks, I had a complex about it. You go from seeing each other every day, texting almost every second, to not seeing each other for weeks and texting every hour.

I feel like the obnoxious single person at a party who can’t take a hint to fuck off.

I can’t tell anyone about my trip because it feels like bragging.

I don’t want to make plans because it feels like begging.

I attempt to find comfort in my solitude, and I’m hit with a realization:

Life goes on without you.

Which is odd to me, because I came back.

I turn twenty-five. I’m stuck at work on my birthday this year. I make it a rule that everyone must tell me happy birthday — and they do.

My friends throw me a surprise party. I feel bad for whining about them in therapy earlier in the week. I realize now that it’s just me, and I shouldn’t punish everyone for my abandonment issues.

I meet someone old and someone new. I wonder if this is the start of something.

I blink, and June is gone.

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July

I spend the Fourth of July with my dad. We head to the movies, as we often do.

Before the movie starts, my dad tells me, I’m so glad we still get to do this together.

Every time I say goodbye to my dad, it makes a part of me sad. We live our lives together, but apart from one another. My parents divorced when I was six years old, and that distance has always been there.

I leave my dad to smoke a cigarette in his car. I watch him from my rearview mirror.

My therapist tells me I should start writing again.

I write Sacrifice Looks Better on Paper.

The rest kind of just spills out of me.

I confess about middle school and high school. About the boys who didn’t like me back but had no issue draining me emotionally. How it felt to be sixteen turning seventeen. The emptiness. The betrayal of best friends.

And how this eroded my trust in myself and in others. How I’m not sure if I’m remembering this correctly at all — but it has haunted my narrative for a decade.

I title it Girl on the Verge.

I decide that for me to be a true writer, I need to be honest. Honest with myself and my audience.

This act of writing has instilled a confidence in me. I’m learning to trust my brain again — to believe that I’m a decent writer. Strangers are telling me to keep going.

This feels good.

I start thinking about taking a solo trip somewhere so my passport isn’t collecting dust.

I set my sights on Portugal.

I sigh, and August arrives.

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August

This month feels akin to taking an afternoon nap and waking up before dinner with a pounding headache.

This August, I oddly feel more at peace.

I’ve been practicing a new rule: when you feel as though people are staring, dare to stare back.

This immediately calms my nervous system when I realize it’s just an old woman lifting 2lb dumbbells and not the guy I’ve kinda had a crush on since June.

This rule has also given me the courage to look silly.

For a long time, I didn’t want to be perceived because I couldn’t control what people saw. I’m realizing now that I was thinking about myself way too much. No one cares. Why should I?

School is creeping up on me. So is the rest of my life. I feel as though I’m being pushed to make a move toward something… but I’m not sure what.

I want to get out of this town.

I think about turning thirty and eventually thirty-five. I wonder when I’ll decide to start a family. I wonder if I’ll ever be ready to be a wife (probably not).

I think about everyone else I know and how they decide on one person and stay put. I wonder if that’s who I am as well — and if I’m just fighting against my true nature.

September will be here soon. Portugal is calling.

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