Who am I? It’s a question I’ve asked myself for the past 10-ish years, and not once have I had a sure answer. I feel like a pilgrim. A traveller of the mind. Rarely do I leave the comforts of my home, but I am constantly searching, opening trap doors, shimmying through air ducts. And never finding what I’m looking for.
But yet I know what I’m looking for. I’m looking for me. What it looks like I don’t know. But I think I know what it feels like. Warm, assuring, inspiring. And who wouldn’t want to feel that?
But for some reason it’s always outside my reach. Just outside my reach. And no matter how hard I struggle to grasp it, it’s just never enough. And the struggle, in fact, makes if seem even farther away. Like it may as well be in Milwaukee. Or Dubai. Or fucking Jupiter.
So the question still remains: who am I?
I am the daughter of an accountant, steadfast and predictable, kind-hearted and witty, sometimes too intelligent for his own good. And of a mother turned nurse turned teacher, passionate and flexible, creative and dedicated, sometimes too nurturing for her own good.
I am the product of a non-traditional family unit, muddled with step-parents and same-sex partners and foster siblings and a sperm donor brother. And for all the challenges it presented me, I wouldn’t change anything.
I am a paradox.
I am sometimes small-minded and afraid of change, but I also thrive on new challenges and experiences.
I am extremely introverted, but left to my own devices I become morose and my outlook bleak.
I am good at most things that I try. But I’m not exceptional at anything. I yearn for a thing to call my own, but when I claim something, I immediately feel trapped.
And even though I know all these things to be true, I will keep searching. Because I am a pilgrim. A traveller of the mind. And if I stop searching, I’m afraid I might die.