As much as I consider myself a creature of habit, I feel myself inevitably drawn to change. Restless, even. Unwilling to stay in one place for too long. Physically, mentally, what have you. Things cannot remain as they are.
“Let’s go get our daiths pierced. Can you help me rearrange my room? I want another tattoo. What do you think I would look like as a blonde?”
I keep hoping that someday I’ll be happy with the result. That I’ll figure out the key to solving all my problems is getting my belly button pierced, being the best friend of some specific person, and wearing size 2 jeans.
I don’t think it’s that easy.
I want an answer. Can there be an answer? Is it like algebra, where some combination of x, y, and z will all of a sudden add up to what constitutes as happiness or perfection? Or am I destined for failure if I try to reduce it to something as simple as a mathematical equation?
I don’t know.
Sometimes I convince myself that I can be happier if I can just be different. Smile more. Be more outgoing, get skinnier. Talk to strangers. Wear crop tops. The problem is, it doesn’t work.
I’m drawn to change because I’m itching to get out of my own skin. To be somebody new every day. To reinvent myself every time something happens that doesn’t fit into my plan. I shed pounds like they are the sole embodiment of everything I don’t like about the person I’ve grown to be. The less there is of me, the easier it is to switch personas. The less there is of me, the less there is to hate.
I know the answer isn’t as accessible as I want it to be. I know I’m not getting anything out of running away from the things that make me uncomfortable. I’m not going to learn to love my body by manipulating it into some warped size. I’m not going to form strong relationships with people by deciding that none of them are worth holding onto.
The more things seem to change, the more they stay the same.