The age-old question, right? Does anybody know? I don’t know…
I mean, how do you know who you are?
i mean reallyyyy know.
And what does it mean to be known? Like, if I don’t know who i am then how can anybody really know who i am? Does that make sense?
Is my identity just an amalgamation of my genetic make-up, upbringing, random or inherited personality quirks? Social conditioning? Or, am I- we – born with a predetermined identity?Personality traits; each one without our consciousness or election. Revealing themselves in every moment from birth until our last breath?
Worst still, what if our identity, is so fearfully shaped by our lived experiences? Both conscious and subconscious. Affected by the magic and misgivings of the world as you existed as a tiny egg in your mothers womb. A physiological response to every earth-side interaction, experience, or thought we’ve ever had. Identities cultivated by joy, trauma, exhilaration and everything in between…
Well, i fear that my entire identity is a result of my trauma.
Yep.
A direct response.
And… I. Do. Not. Like. It. I do NOT like it. In fact, i hate it. Lord knows i hate it.
It’s like your entire life, all of your achievements, milestones , everything you have become is thanks to your trauma.
And the thing is, everyone will experience some degree of trauma in their lifetime, right? Like, pain is inevitable. We know it. We understand. Cool.
So why does my trauma have such a hold over me? Why does my pain affect me so? How has it become so deeply ingrained within me? How has it penetrated every fibre of my being? Altering what once was to a degree akin only to a some awful road traffic accident. People applaud and commend you for your success, beaming about how well you do. Completely unaware that you are bleeding from every crevice. Your heart covered in bandages, the mind dying, shutting down due to the blunt force trauma to the head. Your soul leaves the earth. This is not even your face, or at least not your real face. The world oblivious to how damaged and disfigured you are…
So you live in a glass jar: you can see everyone. Everyone can see you. Yet they can’t see you. They don’t know you.
Nobody does…
Least of all me.
The Elusive Housewife 