When I sat down to write yesterday, something entirely different came out. I spent the down time between classes ranting about this lost feeling I was experiencing that I couldn’t quite understand or normalize. I saved the draft with the intention of doing a read-over before I published it later. Yet, as I sit here now, I’ve just deleted the entirety of my last post- something I never do (pretty much everything on here is completely rough-drafty and most of the time I don’t get a chance/don’t want to read over it).
See, listening to essays being read later in the day in my creative nonfiction writing workshop, I realized something. A belief I had fully integrated at some point was that each person is, on some level, seeking connection, whether that be with oneself, others, one’s surroundings, etc. However, what I had written about yesterday was how I’d been feeling lost recently through connection. The two understandings didn’t fit. Being a stubborn individual, I want all of what I think to be true to prove as such. Thus, I was naturally inclined to make the two work together.
Then, I realized. I think some of us are so filled with a desire to connect, that we become afraid of it; connection, that is. Running from the connection is the only way to ensure our place with it, as seeking that which holds power is often more unpredictable than when we dismiss it. With that, I think I’ve been a runner. In fact, I know I have. An eating disorder is just that: a form of running. Numbing out our souls to anything that can touch us makes certain connection is diminished.
In healing my relationship with food and then my relationship with myself, I slowed down and sat still. I let feelings in, and then connections. Each have worked to strengthen the other, but it’s a process and I’m still figuring out what my experiences are with it. When I recognized how lost I felt, all I could identify was being stuck in an experience of feeling wholly different from what I’m used to. A lot of that was, somewhat surprisingly, because I’ve been so happy. Things seemed to be precariously put-together, unusually calm, but uncertain, and the typical questions I have about what where I am means, have been more silent. With all of the new, I was hit with a pang of unsettling nerves, though the out-loud panic to figure everything out all at once was still dim. There was this way in which I woke up with a rush to make a move that felt concrete. I felt lost in my reality.
I couldn’t figure out how to change it. I wasn’t sure it even needed to change. Then, embracing a technique my previous therapist often used, I tried to normalize it. Outside of the feeling, there were a million reasons why I, as a nineteen-year-old human being, would feel lost and sometimes I forget that, circumstances aside, my experience can just be a moment without being a statement. I forget that I am just a person living a sometimes-uncertain life. I forget that no one else has all of the answers either, and that some, if not most, of the questions don’t even have resolutions. I forget that I’m not running anymore, and that this is what feelings, well, feel like.
Sometimes people feel lost and happy, and it doesn’t have to make sense. Sometimes people feel lost because they feel happy. Sometimes people are afraid that the happy will go away, or it feels happy in a new way, and that makes them feel lost. Sometimes I am people.