Who Are We?

Starring into the car mirror, I just look so - old. Raising my hand to graze my cheek, the skin is still mostly supple, and soft. Yet, there are lines alongside my eyes, creases in the cheeks. Lines that weren’t there even a year before. “It just goes by so fast,” I whisper to myself in disbelief. “Time just flies by.”

An ache fills my chest. Is it aging I fear? Or rather, cannot accept? No, quite the opposite. I prayed my whole life to become old. So much so, that my homeroom teacher in high school the first time I met him said, “Don’t wish your life away.”

The trauma I endured on a daily basis at that time in my life was brutal, and unrelenting. Almost six years of daily torture. Then, I prayed for anything to end it. Of course, he didn’t know. How could he? No one knew.

As I got older and was able to leave the house, I prayed that I could finally LIVE. Let me live! Alas, the anxiety I felt from the years of oppression made me feel as though each day could truly be my last because for a time, that was my reality. As a teenager, there were moments where I closed my eyes and thought, “this is it.” Miraculously somehow, it never was, and I survived it all.

The brain doesn’t catch up to the present, though, after trauma. The brain places you in the moments which you relive the most. For years as an adolescent, and then a young adult, I legitimately felt that each birthday would be my last. It’s such an unusual feeling, especially to attempt to explain to others. The mantra is, “Live every day as though it were your last.” That mantra is sweet and noble for most. A guideline to a state of remembrance to stop and smell the roses. For me, it was a literal daily circumstance. Live every day as though it is your last, because it very well may be. That does something terrible to a child. And, as we know, all children become adults.

I was 30 before I started to believe I might actually have the privilege of aging. Something about turning thirty made me realize that I was already almost half way there. Half way to the finish-line. In theory, I still likely had at least another ten years before meeting the half-way point, but remember - for 15 years I didn't think I would make it to tomorrow.

No, aging isn’t the fear, the knot I feel in the depths of my abdomen. Is it death, then? Maybe. Or maybe, it’s the fear of a life not well-lived.

Yes, that. I spent so much of my time in survival, hiding in the shadows. Locking myself away. Running. Appeasing. Trying to see the morning sun once more.

What of a life lived out of joy? Do I even know how to live a life well? For eons it seems the only goal was to continue breathing. Now, the world expects me to live? To make something of myself? To become vulnerable again, for what? To be speared through the heart once more? No, thank you.

I’ll be 37 sooner rather than later. Gratitude floods my bones, fills me up when I think about inching toward forty. Forty is when my grandmother’s life really began, according to her. Albeit, she’s now 93 - so at 40 she wasn't yet middle-aged. However, I still think about it all the time; what it’ll be like to finally launch.

There’s that knot again. The wave of fear again. Oh, no. Oh God, no. I understand now. Gazing upon my newly slightly sagging face, I realize the fear in my stomach is the fear of a life un-lived. Even though I’ve been doing more each day, experiencing joy and slowing down, contributing to my community, I haven’t taken any risks. Without risks, there are little chances for reward; nor are there any chances for real fulfillment.

It’s not enough to experience joy in each day; not yet, not for me. I think as the days wind down in my internal clock, one day, the simple pleasures will be enough. But, not now. I waited my whole life to be able to undo the trauma. To undo the damage. To repair and renew as much as I could. For years I have kept myself waiting, saying quietly to myself, “Not yet, we aren’t quite healed enough yet. We aren’t ready yet.” Little did I understand that I was holding myself back in each moment I believed that narrative. Perfection disguising itself as nurture. How disgusting. How had I not recognized it for what it was? An internalized and tremendous fear of failure. Long ago, as a trauma survivor, I learned that in order to survive I could not show vulnerability. That I could not fail if I did not try. That living within my own castle walls was truly the only safe place. This is something that has sneakily come back up time and again, disguising itself as different things along the way. Today, it showed up as perfection masquerading as nurture. Well, no more.

For days I have been wondering what social media has to do with all of this, as I’ve been called by spirit to get rid of it all. Now, I understand. In a world full of curated lives, I can also curate my own. Presenting it on a silver platter of pretend. Pretending to connect. Pretending to care. Pretending to be only a fraction of myself; stifling the multi-faceted miracle of my humanity. Social media for me is only another set of walls, another fortress of pain hidden under the guise of safety. Social media is safe because we cannot possible embody our whole selves in that space. There are too many distractions, too much manipulation. Reality is never as it seems on social media. Social media, in a sense, is outside of any realm of reality as it lacks tone, nuance, and perspective. It’s nothing more than a dream of who we are; or a nightmare.

“What am I doing?” I ask myself as I slide my palms down my cheeks, pulling my eye lids away from my eyes exposing the red undersides. Another day of believing I am not ready for life is another day wasted. Another day of spending time like an infinite resource, is another day for a fool. I pray that today is the day I have finally awoken.

In that vein I must ask, what are we doing? Who are we now that humanity is fused with technology, answering 20, 50, 100 notifications per day? Are we slaves to our own invention? Are we automatons for the capitalist machine? Are we still even human? How could we be if we cannot even dream? If we cannot live the passions of our soul? If we cannot simply put ourselves out there to create? Who are we if we cannot even fulfill our soul’s purpose to quite simply live?