A few years ago, my portuguese teacher asked our class to make a small assignment about ourselves, where each paper should contain a quick description of our personalities, strengths and faults, and what we hoped for the future. It felt very silly to ask this type of report to a bunch of 17 and 18 year olds, something straight from kindergarten. I don’t think I’ll speak only for myself when I mention that we were all bummed out and considered it a waste of time. And the worst part? We also had to present it in front of the whole class.
I started to realise early on that I didn’t know myself very well, or at least not well enough to write 500 words about myself. I tried to think outwards and wonder what others thought about me, and it only got worse, muddier. Everyone already knew me in that place, they surely had their own impressions and opinions about me as a person, so introductions felt meaningless, there was no blank slate, and there were too many voices. I started to ask myself instead who was the real me, what made me…me. That’s kind of how I got introduced to zodiacs, and MBTI quizzes, and numerous other ways to label myself, characterize my personality and be sure I was something that had clear limits and meaning.
ARGH!!!!!!! Speaking about this feels like opening a pandora box full of embarrassing moments from my childhood, even when all this happened a few years ago, not decades. It feels like getting naked, but not in a poetic way, more in a “DON’T YOU KNOW HOW TO KNOCK?” right before you open the door to the bathroom where I happened to be undressing. I remember speaking with an virtual friend once, her mentioning she was the same online as she was offline, and I stood, confused, feeling like… a pretender. A lie. How was that possible, to know yourself well enough, to be sure of who you are in all the spaces you cross?
Because I always felt somewhat fragmented. A composition of misadjusted melodies, a pile of faces upon faces. Scattered, like autumn leaves taken by the wind. It makes me wonder, and eventually believe that all my life I’ve been searching for pieces of who I am everywhere, in everything I see. That that is also why I pour so much of who I am into everything: hobbies, books, music, people…. at least right at the beginning, before the sparkles die down, the cloths worn out, and I am left with only memories of what I once had. Of who I once was.
There was also a teacher I had in university that once said “a person that wants to be everything ends up becoming nothing”. This quote did not meant to sound poetic at all, given it had a specific context, but I took it personally, like I do with most things. What do you mean I can’t become everything? If I want to be a writer, and a professional gamer, and a gardener and a plumber, who are you to tell me I can’t be all those things? That I am not everything I love and hate and want and can’t have?
We’re so immense, so wide, we blurry the lines of who we are. That in my head means we can’t be completely understood, which scares me. Just one more detail in the grand scheme of things I will never fully comprehend! But, you know what? I also think we overestimate ourselves sometimes. We take ourselves far too seriously — and that is coming from a full-fledged and critically acclaimed overthinker.
My teacher’s point probably was that you can’t really throw, give yourself into everything. All of you. That it is impossible to be all over the place. Even in our daily routines, we can’t do our morning pee and eat our breakfast at the same time. There’s an innate need to prioritize when it comes to our actions, otherwise chances are you’ll be left with a half-done to-do list at the end of a day. So, in that sense, she was right.
Still, there isn’t a single framework to how we’re supposed to be ourselves, or a recipe to find out who we are, is there? I have no rights to tell you if it’s right or wrong to try and build yourself through quotes, thoughts, postcards, books, shows, songs, artists, people, colours. It is all I do know though, how I learned, or rather taught myself. Ever since I can remember, I’ve been a fan of... things: from Barbie to Winx, Taylor Swift, iconic movies and embarrassing 2010s YA novels, sometimes I feel like I’m a rabbit, hoping on from one thing to another as I follow my heart. Do I ever become anything if I keep going like this?
Wait, am I not taking myself a bit too seriously? It’s so easy to get caught up in the lopsided logic of my own brain, sometimes I need to take a step back and take in all the view, all the various ideas, and connect the dots. Who am I? I don’t know, not completely. One thing the years have taught me and that I do know, is that even works half done are important. That sometimes enough is good enough. That if you can’t muster the strength to take a shower, sometimes washing your hair or under your arms will be enough, or if you can’t read a whole article, it’s enough to read a paragraph or two. Enough to keep going.
I kind of see myself in that way too nowadays. In the steady, lengthy process of figuring it out. I’m Ines, fan of things. Lover of things. Just the other week I found out that laying on the floor helps calm my stress and anxiety, grounding (get it?) my restless mind and quieting my thoughts. I found out I love making myself fruit bowls, although I ought to make them more often. That going on walks greatly improves my mental and emotional health. That one Seventeen song per day chases the sadness away.
Yeah, there’s a lot I don’t know, and a lot I have yet to be. Maybe I really am a bit.. everywhere — and, still, I’m not everything just because of that. I don’t need to. I’m half-finished. Not a half empty or half full glass, rather a bunch of strokes in a white canvas. That doesn’t mean I am nothing. I just am, and that’s enough.
Thank you for reading delicate this week. I hope that you’ve been taking care of yourself this past week, and that September won’t be too harsh on you.
delicacies of the week
This picture I found as I was scouring through Pinterest. I think it’s really lovely, specially the quote.
The Dead Romantics by Ashley Poston. Honestly, when I picked it up, I’m not sure I knew what I was looking for. The premise seemed nice, intriguing and different from most contemporary romances I usually pick. And, woah, I wasn’t disappointed! A slow burn fiction novel about a writer that sees ghosts and has to finish a novel for her editor, who happens to be a ghost. Silly, but heart-warming. Full review.
The interview (1:25) with the corn kid (Tariq!), who became an internet.. sensation? as of recently. I’m not kidding when I tell you this is the BEST thing I’ve watched all week. Simply looking at him makes me feel happy, hopeful, and ready to love life! AND CORN!
songs of the week: aura by alba reche , space by the poles and colours of you by baby queen || delicate’s spotify playlist!