Truly This Is What Made Me….
Who the fuck am I? Where do I stand in the world now? How do I even begin to identify myself now?
Identity’s almost as weird a topic as freedom (ICYMI). Who was I before it happened? Who am I now?? I was a completely different girl. I’ve always been a little on the Wednesday side of life. You don’t come the other side of what I’ve been through in a twin set and pearls whist huming ‘Que Sera Sera’. I used to be a party girl, I loved being on and working on the scene. I was young, free, single and THIN. I had more than my share of fun tbh, life was a game and I sure knew how to play it. Then it happened and my life went absolutely bat shit crazy, probably because I did.
So who have I become? I became a victim, and now I’m morphing in to a survivor. Physically I’m easily identified as “Kit, with the hair”, some identify me by my sexuality. Others through my relationships “Bub’s Mum”, “Hetty’s Daughter” or “Rosa’s Granddaughter”. I guess the state of my head on the day depends on how I identify myself. First and foremost, I’m Kit, and honestly that’s the only label that I should need to wear, all the others are either fairly specific or completely irrelevant. I’m not a tin of soup for fucks’ sakes.
A lot has happened since 2011. I feel pregnant at the end of the year, and honestly, that was when I felt like I was a woman. In 2012 I became a mother, and everything shifted because of the little tiny person I brought in to the world. Then I did it again and made another little person. Being a mother has moulded itself into part of my identity, how could it not when it’s changed my world forever. It changes how you look at the world, it makes you a bit more judgmental than you’d like to admit to being. Suddenly it’s not just about protecting yourself, it’s about protecting them too. Everything I do is for Bub & Pidge but I’d like to think I’m more than just their Mum. One of my friends told me that he thinks I’m an activist because I want to be the change that I want to see in the world. I like to think of myself as being a Warrior, fighting for change, I want the world to be a better place when I leave it than it was when I came in to it. Fat chance of that if the way the world is going at the moment is anything to go by.
Maybe ignorance would be bliss? The only problem is that I cannot have been put on this planet to suffer the way I have for no reason. I have to have a purpose, I have to be here to solve some sort of problem. Maybe my legacy will reveal my identity??
You’re many people; you have at least one identity for every person who knows you and every slight gradation of your self-esteem scale as your opinion of yourself oscillates, and you gain more whenever you become aware of any of them. You’re so many people that you’re practically everybody, or more than everybody, which is to say nobody.
You’re the sum of your past: every experience; every word, spoken or heard; every action and every consequence, known or unknown, of those actions, and the consequences of those, too; the roads not taken, the paths you followed, the time spent lost, walking in circles until you finally gave up and sat down right there and realized that right there was where you were.
You’re the light reflected in the eyes and smiles of others, and your manifestations in deeper, more secret places. You’re the warmth you kindle in someone’s heart, the nostalgia felt when you remind someone of when they were that young, the wistful hope that she can be a version of you someday. You’re the way his eyes follow you from across the room, the subtle way they shift their weight to stand with or against you, the curl of her lip as she realizes that you’re here, too.
You’re a stream bed with a twig caught between two large stones, pushed this way and that by the water’s flow, but never quite dislodged, even as larger branches rush past, sodden with soggy leaves. You’re the fingerlings that find relative peace in a wider bend, and then you rush on again.
You’re raindrops falling on the marble edifice of a temple to a new holy trinity: a thin granddaughter victim, a daughter but not a tin of soup warrior, a mother named Kit who doesn’t realize that she’s already a survivor. And even as you fall and splash and drip and roll harmlessly away down the carves sides of the monument to these ideas of you, remember that, eventually, it is never the stone that wins, but the rain.
@dolorangelicus I love this 💕
@dolorangelicus I love this 💕
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“Activist” and “warrior” and “mum” are all wonderful labels to have placed on your identity, I think.
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