Word Salad

I haven't written anything all week because my mind has been speaking in boxes and fields and formulas instead of words.

Today I'm forcing myself. Like a salad you don't want but you know you need.

Sometimes I think I avoid writing to protect myself from myself. Today, I know that's true.

I'm carrying a secret and I've realized I've spent a lot of my life carrying a secret.

Usually that secret is me.

Maybe not in as toxic a way as that sounds, but a secret is a secret. It's either: if I don't mention I'm adopted I can fly under the radar and feel worthy and (dare I say) normal for at least a moment in time. Blend in. Say less.

or

It's: The story of how I came to exist is complicated and impacts more than just me.

Both of those secrets I've adapted to hold simultaneously, one in each arm like a fucked up pack mule.

One serves my adopters. One serves my first family. Both only sometimes serve me, from a protective sense. I have my fair share of days when they feel heavy as hell and I'm doing the brisk walk from the grocery story parking lot to get them in the car because my whole body and mind are tired.

If I didn't have to keep the secret, or be the secret, I wonder what I'd do? Or who I'd be?

I wonder if I wouldn't be waking up tired after going to bed at 10 PM the night before.

I wonder if I'd feel more free to "color outside the lines" or whatever the fuck you call life outside of a perfectionist prison.

I wonder if it would feel more at home in my body rather than feeling like I'm aways fighting some kind of battle I don't remember agreeing to.

All this "I wondering" then becomes it's own kind of prison. Because "I wonder" isn't really a place you can set down roots and feel at home. It's constant exploration but all of those changing hotel rooms wear you down after a while.