crazy.

I was at the check-out at Wegman's tonight. And after the cashier put my last bag of groceries in the cart, she said (in a very Stifler's-Mom kind of manner): "That hat looks so cute on you. You look like Penelope Cruz. What are you doing here? You belong in Hollywood."

I said, "Oh, bless your heart."


I feel like such a foreigner in my own body and I'm itching to get out. Literally itching. I've been finding myself scratching at my skin lately, for no particular reason. I acquired somewhat of a battle wound on my lower back from it.
But it's true. I don't feel like I'm in the right vessel. It's uncomfortable. I kind of want to rip my skin and climb out like an alien. I'm not sure this feeling can be understood until you actually find yourself begging a higher power to take handfuls of your body and throw them in the trash. Fistfuls of flesh.

I don't mean to sound morbid or self-destructive. It's just what's been happening in my head lately. My body is not my body anymore. It doesn't belong to me. It is its own entity, which is a very scary thing to try to accept. It makes me sick, to be honest. What do you do when you disgust yourself? You can't run away. You can't pretend you don't exist.

I want to wear a Post-It on my back that says something like: "This isn't really me. Don't look at me, because this isn't what I'm supposed to look like." The sad thing is, I actually mean it. I don't really want to be seen or noticed anymore. Not that I ever did. But I would feel so much more comfortable if I could drift by unseen. I'd still have to deal with my own mirror reflection, but at least I wouldn't have to try to manage my social insecurities at the same time.

I understand I probably sound really low. I can't say that'd be an exaggeration. There just comes a point where you can't really fake it anymore. I already broke this stupid, self-deprecating news to the three most significant people in my life a couple weeks ago. So the cat is out of the bag. They know I'm at a low point. They know I essentially hate what I've become, in almost every sense of the word "I".
It's nice to be open about it. I think sometimes we fail to acknowledge what we legitimately dislike about ourselves. It's always just "My nose is too big," or "I hate my thighs," because that's what society expects us to say. But this goes much deeper. This is a matter of "Why can't I trust myself?" "Why do I keep failing?" "Why am I such a disappointment to others?" And once you acknowledge these awful questions, it hurts, but it feels good at the same time. You feel smarter. You feel more in-tune with yourself, which is ironic because you've never felt so outside yourself.

I just wish someone would've told me the true definition of "crazy" before I got to this point. Who knew crazy could look so normal? Was it ever avoidable? Or was I programmed at conception to be this way? Maybe it's a karma thing. Or a written-in-the-stars thing. Because in all honesty, crazy just feels so familiar right now. Crazy is a comfy couch. And as much as I hate it, crazy welcomes me with open arms. It's like an elite club with a big bouncer at the door. And I laugh at everyone who walks by outside. Even if they don't want to come in to dance, I feel some sort of validation, identity and sense of membership.
I have something they don't. I see something they don't. And in the end, maybe I'll grow a thicker skin that they won't.