Swirls of Bittersweet Cognition
Cowering on tiptoes, I stand inspired.
Balanced with complacency, I’m ashamed to be proud.
Consciously pulled toward avoidance, I yearn to create.
Spinning, yet flying, I’m muddied by the purity embedded from within.
Swirling in slow motion, I dare to dance with a destiny I now know I desire.
Carrying the hum of misfortune and the buzzing of promise, true fulfillment lies beyond the static.
Will I, or won’t I? I will. Right?
Behind gritted teeth and chattering fingers, I inch myself toward my truth. With space expanding between my thoughts and feelings, I allow myself to be who I’ve always been.
With each new word and with every minute stride, I step into my own.
I can do this, I remind myself, over and over and over.
I can I can I can I can.
There is no summit, I repeat tirelessly, willing the chasm of self-doubt and trepidation away a little at a time.
There is no summit. There is no summit. There is no summit.
I’m doing this for me. I’m doing this for me. I’m doing this for me.
Coming into my own? Reuniting with my long lost self? Is there not a love story more gratifying than that of one’s bittersweet homecoming?
Willfully ignorant, conveniently in denial — Amanda is now emerging. Artistry long sequestered amidst a siren song, she is me, I am her, and we are here.
Beneath the fear, beyond the noise, that’s where I finally exist with an everlasting poise.
And so I sit with the ambivalence in every keystroke, ironically forced to embrace the gliding of ink onto paper as I fight the urge to stop, stop…stop. It’s almost as satisfying as it is frightening.
Only people who are good enough succeed.
My lack of success must mean I’m not good enough.
No. No. No!
When will it feel safe?
When will the excitement return?
When will the smallest step feel enough?
When will I believe in the worth I know I innately carry?
For today, seven minutes is my victory.
For today, eight minutes is my victory.
Perils of Forbidden Promises
Where, along the arbitrary timeline of life, does it say we must have our lives mapped out by graduation day? Where, in the unspoken script of adulthood, does it demand we learn first, and work later? Where, along the arduous road to self-actualization, does the finish line become the ultimate goal post?
Oh wait, this is what I’ve been internalizing my whole life.
At 26 years old, the realization that I’ve suppressed my identity isn’t startling. However, the realization that I do know some of who I am, is.
If I know who I am, what then? If I know who I am, and I’m simply denying myself of that truth, what does that say about me?
I want a career. There, I said it. Long terrified at the thought of random, unfamiliar social interactions, a career has always felt impossible — an insurmountable feat in the face of an already substantial pile of adversity. Sure, cognitive distortions have clouded my inner dialogue, attaching unrealistic declarations to otherwise neutral phenomenons. In the case of professional development, though? Always and never typically applied. With fluency the inescapable whack-a-mole, sustained interest a fleeting concept, and maternal support, nonexistent — it’s no wonder I never allowed myself to dream.
College? More like escape route to me. Pursuing a degree of advanced study? More like, “which path would cause the least amount of mental anguish?”
I’m done suppressing. But now, I’m forced to embrace a new kind of terror: lost time.
Social media is triggering. Seeing people in the grocery store is triggering. Working in a grocery store is triggering. It’s rare to go one day without stumbling across a post, milestone, or success story from someone I went to college with. I’m faced with automatic, repetitive reminders of my own failures on a regular basis.
I want to be a writer, yet when asked who I admire — I stare blankly with nothing to say. I am a photographer, yet when asked what I’ve been working on lately — again, I stare blankly, with nothing to say.
Longing for a fearless existence while simultaneously tangled in a web of self-fulfilling deceit, I hold myself hostage daily basis. Striving toward what I can’t yet stomach, I toss and turn in the morning, writhing in the agony of who I could be — if I just wasn’t afraid anymore. Yearning five hundred steps ahead of what my body can handle, I play hide and seek with my mind. Hiding myself in plain sight, seeking what I can’t yet allow myself to want — I am an artist in denial of who I truly am.
Climbing the rusted steps of a path not yet established, I lay here, stuck.
Hovering above and below the finish line I so idealistically cherish — I remain, paralyzed.
Caught in the breeze of near-contentment, I lie awake in restless fantasy — captivated, yet immobilized.
Will I ever crawl out from beneath the weight of my own unrealistic expectations? Can I allow myself to take even the smallest, incremental step? Can I welcome the fear, extend compassion for its presence, and move forward anyway?
Can I trust the feeling, but question the story?
Today, I think I will.
The Quiet & The Noise
5, 4, 3, 2, 1…
Ready, set…NO
It doesn’t make sense. Make it make sense.
That’s the only way.
Am I just lonely? Under too much pressure?
Am I pushing myself to swim, but causing a drowning instead?
Am I surrounded only out of proximity, and default? Do people only care when I’m nearby?
Am I too vulnerable?
Am I doing enough? Strong enough to do more?
What happened to the light I once carried, and recently, reclaimed?
How much of my potential have I limited?
Labels all around, is what's lost somewhere to be found?
Amanda, are you in there?
Are you underneath the heaviness?
Exposure Therapy! Cognitive Reframing!
Shaky hands, foggy mind, the clock ticks away,
Hours, minutes, moments until the next obligation.
Tight chest, vacant stares, cuticles picked until they’re raw.
A muted and incomplete personality,
Tatters of self adrift in the wind.
Is this my final straw?
Ten fingers, ten toes,
How many hours have I lost, living within a show?
Sequencing that never ends,
I can’t keep up with every healing trend.
Thoughts on a cloud, enveloping the big blue sky,
Can anyone understand why I’m so hesitant to try?
Mindfulness! Body Scans! Daily, Regular Practice!
Clear the fog? Part my clouds? Rediscover lightness?
…what if I don’t want to at all?
…what if I don’t trust it anymore?
…what if the darkness is more authentic than the light?
No one wants to hear the truth when it’s ugly. People want to hear how you’ve overcome, persisted, and never lost faith.
How can I believe I’m capable of success when I trap myself under the weight of expectation, imprisoned by the need to make up for lost time?
How can I trust that I will put myself back together, when I can’t remember the specifics and the how-tos, from each time before?
Am I destined to a life of self-inflicted overcompensation and worrisome transitions?
Yoga! Somatic Bodywork! Self Awareness!
Can I have peace?
Figure it out. Figure it out. Figure it out.
Can I have…quiet?
Take responsibility. Take responsibility. Take responsibility!
Is there any stopping the noise?
Regulate. Regulate. Regulate!
Logic and reasoning, you’re in there somewhere.
One flicker, two,
One foot in front of the other is all I have to do.
Oh Amanda, you’re still in there.
Oh Amanda, you’re not a self-improvement project.
You and me? Let’s just…be.
Quirky…Clumsy…Silly…Expressive…Reactive… Impulsive…Creative…Analytical…Colorful…Resilient… Magnetic…Loyal…Honest…Authentic…Empathic…Straightforward…Reliable…Responsible…Methodical… Organized…Insightful…
Following a setback, here are 5 things that have helped me to regain a semblance of self and regroup:
Letting my hair down
Putting on simple makeup
Allowing myself a little inconsistency with daily rituals
Befriending my struggle, instead of shaming it
Meditating the moment I wake up, as the clouds roll in
60. Freaking. Seconds.
Yes, there is time.
1,2,3…the only person I can control is me.
Can you pretty please help me? I need gas money. Even though we’re supposed to be apart right now, do you want to go to the movies with me? Sorry it’s last minute, but can you dog-sit tonight? I know it’s your day off, but can you cover a call-out?
Remember, customers’ needs come first. Make sure you take your break on time. Don’t clock out more than fourteen minutes past your scheduled shift. Go with the flow, and adapt to changes — but have a plan. Don’t overthink it. It’s not personal.
You’re just too sensitive.
I have everything I need within me, to succeed.
Practice mindfulness, but plan for the future. Respond, rather than react. Accept what you had and grieve what you didn’t. Give yourself what you need, don’t be codependent — but know when to ask for help. Take care of yourself, but also care for others. Advocate for yourself, but be a team player. Make sure you’re eating well, but allow yourself the occasional treat.
I believe in myself, I trust myself.
Okay, Amanda. It’s time to drive home, get settled in, use the bathroom, change your clothes, then make dinner. Bedtime is 9:30 pm. Simple enough!
Post-work routine, check.
Wait, is today a day I’m supposed to be dog-sitting? No, that’s tomorrow. How much water did I drink today? I’m probably dehydrated. Hmm. What was that song I was listening to? That reminds me! When was the last time I went for a neighborhood walk?
Let’s go, Amanda. It’s time to wake up, do your skincare, get dressed, repeat your affirmations, and take your meds.
Morning routine, check.
Oh— I forgot about breakfast. Sigh.
I see you, I hear you, I understand you.
With a mind entrenched in constant overdrive, everything feels urgent, all at once and all the time. Sorely unable to slow down, I run full speed ahead or crash instantly. Bombarded with one well-intentioned contradiction after the other, stability feels nothing if not futile. The inner work? Promising, but neverending.
When impulsivity blocks intentional success, and depression looms around the corner out of habit — an insidious kind of paralysis ensues, eroding any self-trust in the process.
If I set a goal but don’t follow through, I’ll feel terrible. Why set myself up for failure? It’s better to have nothing concrete than to feel that shame. Nothing is better than a failed something.
Failing doesn’t make me a failure, it’s part of the process.
With a rich history of people-pleasing fighting its way into my rearview, every act of self-advocacy feels selfish — now.
It’s always about Amanda, does she care about anyone else but herself?!
I am a beautiful, kind, and loving person.
When you’re conditioned to abandon yourself to earn the love of another, you soon equate making demands of others with eventual neglect or abandonment.
I am ambitious. I am confident. I am so powerful.
Where do you draw the line between showing up for others, and showing up for yourself? How do you differentiate between a justifiable frustration and a trivial inconvenience? Is wanting to say no when you’re expected to say yes — unquestionably bad? Are you truly “overreacting” if faced with the same obstacle — repeatedly?
Who gets to be the judge of emotions well-suited, and emotions, well-wasted?
I’m tired of proving myself to everyone.
Pulled left, right, back, and center— some days, it’s a miracle I manage to “keep my cool” at all.
1,2,3…the only person I can control is me.
Yes, I can lend you money, but let me shower and get settled in first. Okay, I’ll keep track of time so my punches are correct. I’m unavailable tonight, but if you need help in the future, let me know a little in advance! I can’t come in today, but I hope you find the coverage you need.
I trust I am exactly where I’m meant to be.
I’ll validate my emotions myself, but express them only after I’ve had time to calm down.
Self-check: Am I irritated? Am I overwhelmed? Am I scared? Am I sad? Wait, am I…happy?
Nevertheless, I’ll continue to process in private. I’m aiming for self-sufficiency, as I continue striving toward interdependence. I’m earning my security, a little at a time.
I’m tired of feeling anxious all the time.
I’m tired of fearing failure.
I’m tired of expecting to be left.
In a world reliant upon urgency, there’s rarely enough space or time to “take five.”
Frankly, there’s hardly enough justification to “take two”…not without the secret whispers, the spirited gossip, and the never-ending judgment.
Oh well.
I trust myself to make the right decisions for me.
How about just…one?
Do we have sixty seconds to spare?
Do I?
If sixty seconds made the difference, wouldn’t we all be in favor? If sixty seconds marked the beginning of a breakthrough, rather than a breakdown — wouldn’t we care then? With a foundation of regular maintenance to fall back on, damage control loses its footing.
That devastating imprint? Lessened. Prevented.
With a softly freshened blow and cushions lining the ground beneath you, picking yourself back up isn’t as daunting as it once seemed.
Picking myself up isn’t as daunting as it once was.
1,2,3…the universe is looking out for me.
It’s looking out for you, too.
Here are five ways I like to take 60 seconds, for myself:
Running my hands under cold water/holding ice cubes
Stopping to smell my perfume through my skin/clothing
Boxed breathing: 1, 2, 3, 4, hold…4, 3, 2, 1
A really good cry (bonus points if accompanied by music)
Pausing…motionless
Alive, At Last
The journey 's just begun.
Cutler’s Ascending Optimism Provides Refuge for the Past, Looks Toward the Future
“If I could I’d wake myself up when I am somebody that I’m proud of,” sings contemporary alt-pop star, Chelsea Cutler.
Distinguishing between elements of dissociative existing and purposeful living, 2023’s, “I Don’t Feel Alive” captures the bitter phenomenon familiar to those who’ve struggled with depression. Known for her danceability and lighthearted synth-pop infusions, Cutler’s Stellaria track pairs a fun, cadenced rhythm with remnants of attempted happiness.
Having also yearned for an incomprehensible passing of time, I too can relate. In my grandmother’s kitchen, I used to wish for old age so I wouldn’t have to suffer the pains of growing up.
“Skin and bones, stomach aches, lucid dreams hold my breath, when I'm wide awake”
Cemented in the present yet weighed down by her past, Cutler resurfaces memories viscerally, and with an undeniable heaviness. Surpassing cognition, she finds herself at a standstill, seeking fulfillment beyond her wordly disconnect.
While dissociation, physical discomfort, and apprehension comprise her wade through strife, recollections of powerlessness, loss of control, and cyclic bouts of numbness comprised mine.
For a long time, I identified with the kind of lifelessness only depression brings. Coasting through each moment both mindlessly and separate from my body — it was as if I didn’t exist at all.
Experiencing time as either right now or not at all, my subconscious played tricks on my body — wreaking lasting havoc in the hopes of finding safety.
At its peak, I avoided mirrors. I drowned myself in fantasy, clinging to the novelty each new romance novel, TV show, or movie had to offer.
If I could help it, I refrained from looking at pictures of myself. Nothing brought more agony than the reminder of my earliest desertion.
I took refuge in denial. I took refuge in pretending.
“The water goes downhill, and still, I swim against the current with two arms that cannot fly”
It did, and sometimes still does. Am I flying, yet? Did I make it?
Caught in the undertow of life, Cutler summarizes the free fall of emotional turmoil. Resting somewhere between a cry for help and an ardent bid for relief, music became a similar outlet of mine, echoing one truth after the other. Embedded in the silence, it became the unforeseen weapon in an arsenal of otherwise useless information.
“I don’t feel alive”
I truly didn’t.
Momentarily my greatest protector, I leaned into the nothingness as if I’d always belonged there. In its inevitable wake, all that remained were hollowed bits and broken pieces, fragments of a self not quite whole — and not at all put together.
Optimistically enmeshed in the present, it’s almost strange to exist on the other side.
I feel like such an impostor.
When adversity precedes identity, authenticity gets lost in the recesses of uncharted water. Straddling what once was with what will be, each new step becomes a risk you’re forced to take.
What’s the alternative?
“I’m writing feelings in a journal, cause that’s what people who have their shit together seem to do”
Every day. If I think it, it must be written. If I feel it, it must be expressed.
Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t. Tools are tools, nonetheless.
How unusual is it when tragedy outweighs triumph — leaving joy to float in the minority? How unsettling is it when heaviness is your earliest legacy, before light peers beyond the surface?
Long bent to the will of authoritative uncertainty, self-fulfilling prophecies, and years-long one-sided devotions, my once-impressionable mind is faced with the question — who am I, now that I’m actually alive?
“I’m learning how to set my boundaries, how to have compassion for myself and for my mind”
Exactly.
I am…human. I am learning. I always was.
Clinging to the markings of my own lifeboat, I now swim alongside the currents, rather than against them. Much like Cutler and her spirited craving to live, I shed the soggy skins of my past. Laying down my armor, I see what I couldn’t before.
The battle is over, I remind myself. There is no war left to wage.
Best efforts and all, it’s as if I’m shaking a bad habit that doesn’t know how to exist without me.
Leaping toward new paths, I’m left to thwart decades’ worth of evidence.
Crashing into me all at once and then a little at a time, still — I carry on.
Everything is okay, now.
“I keep coming up for air —”
“I keep coming up for air, and ending up with water in my —(I don’t feel alive)”
“I keep coming up for air, and ending up with water in my lungs.”
Not anymore.
Here are ten things that make me feel alive:
Laughing
Rollerskating
Hiking
Swimming (bonus points if its the ocean)
Playing fetch/being silly with dogs
Dancing around my living room to music that makes me feel
Scenic drives through the country with the window down, belting out lyrics at the top of my lungs
Walking with purpose, to the beat of a mental soundtrack (EDM & metalcore are great for this)
Getting dressed up for no reason, just because
Writing