identity

biscuit and my sister share a theory that i define myself through two things: my relationships and my accomplishments. this notion disturbs me, not least because i am coming around to thinking that it's true. and it alarms me even more that i've managed to ignore it (or feign unawareness) for so long. but then, like so many other things, staring down the barrel of your own shortcomings can be entirely too sobering an experience.

it makes sense, however. of course it makes sense. as i'm sure you've heard me rail, i've long held a belief that i am possibly the most boring person on the face of the planet; a very boring person who's done some less-than-boring things. and as a citizen of the world in the age of entertainment, i'd rather have people think of me as the girl in the band, the girl in the comic book, the girl who's traveled and had some adventures, that vivacious redhead, than the fundamentally kind, determined but dull girl that i know (or fear) myself to be.

this more or less goes against the grain of everything that i want to be and want to believe in--i want to be perfectly okay with myself, for exactly who i am. and i should, i know i should. but...i am a child, i suppose, of the age of disposability. and i'm constantly afraid of being disposed of, of being traded in for a better model. which is why i opt to trumpet and display on my gleaming chrome and shiny chassis instead of the sound engine beneath. because really--who wouldn't rather have the temperamental 68 corvette than the stalwart toyota? and what have we learned from all that television if not how to sell?

which brings us to defining point number two...it goes, of course, hand in hand with the whole achievements business, though it tears into a softer underbelly, one with which my shrink has an absolute field day. suffice it to say, i have three bags full of issues stemming from way back which i've clearly yet to come to terms with. mercifully, these tendencies have not caused me to pursue promiscuity as a lifestyle choice (at least, not since my early twenties), but i would be lying solidly if i were not to say that high on the list of things i desire is someone to enjoy my kisses, to hold at night, to share my bed and my world (though it is patently obvious that i am so far from ready for any of those things; but that's another story). and i would also be lying if i didn't admit to worrying, pathetic as it sounds, that i've used up my chances for that.

this again goes against some extremely fundamental parts of my wiring. i am a fully formed human being, and i do not need a man to complete my life. i know this to be true, i know this for a fact. but that doesn't change the fact that i am occasionally lonesome, and that i do really like all that stupid old shit, like letters and sodas.

there's more to it than that, of course, but i'm sure you already knew that.

i don't really know where i am going with all this, except to say that i suppose this is one of my quasi-resolutions--to get to the bottom of these tendencies of mine, and learn to break myself of them. i need to learn how to be okay, being myself. by myself.

and don't think that doesn't scare the living fuck out of me. just because i joke about becoming a spinster with cats doesn't mean i don't regard it as a very real and terrifying possibility.

however.

being off sick leaves me waaaaay too much time to brood. clearly.