IT'S TURTLES ALL THE WAY DOWN, MAN.
I wanted to tell her that I was getting better, because that was supposed to be the narrative of illness: it was a hurdle you jumped over, or a battle you won. Illness is a story told in the past tense.
You’re
somebody’s something, but you are yours also.
There's no self to hate. It's lik no actual me—just a bunch circumstances. And a lot of the They're not things I want to th do look for the, like, Real Me, I dolls, you know? The ones that them up, there's a smaller doll dolls until eventually you get t the way through. But with me, I d They just keep getting smaller.
ke, when I look into myself, there's of thoughts and behaviors and em just don't feel like they're mine. hink or do or whatever. And when I never find it. It's like those nesting are hollow, and then when you open inside, and you keep opening hollow to the smallest one, and it's solid all don't think there is one that is solid. .
Like, the world is billions of years old, and life is a product of nucleotide mutation and everything. But the world is also the stories we tell about it.
you get to pick the frame
You pick your endings, and your beginnings. You get to pick the frame, you know? Maybe you don’t choose what’s in the picture, but you decide the frame.
darkness to light/ weakness to strength/ broken to whole Everyone wanted me to feed them that story—darkness to light, weakness to strength, broken to whole. I wanted it, too.