Just let me Be
the pieces don’t fit like they used to
I am untethered from what used to be so very familiar.
I trace my features in the mirror. The small scar on the bridge of my nose—a permanent mark, time will never fix. My lips, rosy and cracked, forever on the verge of bleeding. And my eyes, hazel-brown, distant, as if they belong to someone else. I stare at them like a stranger might, trying to recognize the face, but all that stares back is a inkling of what I once knew.
I am a stranger to myself. ‘Where is that little girl, the one so sure of herself?’ I don’t know. I look for her in old memories, faded photos, in the moments that once lit me up. I want to tear the photos to shreds. I can’t stand how happy she was.
Somewhere along the way, it’s like the switch on my emotions got flipped, and now I’m just.. numb. I used to see the world in HD, every detail sharp and precise, but now it’s as though I’ve lost my glasses—everything blurs in and out, and nothing feels real. Only those rare, acute moments of pain or anger cut through the haze, reminding me what it’s like to see the world with my eyes fully open.
Been there, done that. All the little things fail to amaze me nowdays. It’s like the colors I once saw have dulled; fading into muted shades of what they used to be. The world moves past me like the background noise of a video game you’ve played often—familiar, but no longer resonant. I catch glimpses of the awe I used to feel, but they flicker in and out, like trying to recall a dream that almost completely dissolves the moment you’re awake.
What is happenening to me?
I wish I knew. It feels like I’m drifting further from the girl I once was, the one who didn’t have to question herself so much. She was sure, she was alive in ways that feel so far away now. I think of her sometimes, like a distant relative I haven’t seen in years—familiar but unreachable. She knew exactly who she was, where she stood in the world, and how she fit into it all. I used to believe she would always be there, waiting for me to come back, but now I’m not so sure. What if she doesn’t want to be found?
And so… The identity crisis post. It’s funny; having to be in this endless pursuit of the real you. Is there a real you? Maybe you’re already the real version, and you never really noticed the change from the fake version. Because maybe there was no fake you to begin with.
Often, people use phrases like “This isn’t the real me.” or something of the sort. And while I agree that yes, in some cases this is applicable (e.g. when we act out of character in a flurry of emotions), people do tend to take comfort in blaming actions they are ashamed of on the ‘fake’ version of them. What if the fake version of ourselves isn’t fake at all, but moreso just a quick-fix solution to cover something up—scar tissue. We distance ourselves from actions that embarrass us, as if blaming a false self will numb the sting of regret. But if this version is what holds us together when being raw feels too dangerous, is it any less real? It’s not deception; it’s survival—a layer we grow when the blade has gone too deep. And so every time the blade impales your skin, you use that scar tissue as your protection against the world. And now it seems that that shield is a permanent fixture on your person, for better or for worse.
Why do I miss her? I can’t help but romanticize the old me; I know I’ve outgrown her, maybe even secretly despise her, so why do I feel the need to bring her back? She wasn’t perfect, yet this small part of me wants to revive her somehow. I know she had her own problems, but until I can actually go back and experience those emotions for a second time, I simply can’t fathom that her problems are at the same magnitude as my own. It’s bizzare to me how my memory has this way of erasing the hard edges, making me believe the simplicity of life at that time, even when I know logically, she was struggling too. Perhaps I don’t even want her—Maybe it’s just the idea of ‘I got through it eventually, so it couldn’t have been that bad, right?’. If I am capable of romanticizing it, then maybe it’s not all that hard.
You're the sun, you've never seen the night
But you hear its song from the morning birds
Well, I'm not the moon, I'm not even a star
But awake at night I'll be singing to the birds- Your Best American Girl by Mitski
There’s a line between acting and becoming so lost in a role that you start to wonder: if I let go of the need to be seen through their eyes, would I even recognize myself? I’ve touched on expectations before, so I won’t dwell on that. Still, it’s worth noting how deeply others’ perceptions can distort our reality, bending and reshaping the way we see ourselves until the reflection is almost unrecognizable. Often, this new version isn’t harmless; it carves you out, leaving you utterly hollow. An empty shell of a person. And eventually, you begin to feel like that shell is all there is left.
Have you ever looked in the mirror and wondered, Do I even know her? You recognize the face, but do you truly know her? Our days fall into routines, identity defined by work and accomplishments, each task keeping us too busy to take a breather and ask: beyond what you've done, what makes you, you? It's a question that stumps so many of us, not only because of everything else cluttering our minds, but because no matter how deeply we search, the answer remains unreachable. You can solve complex equations, dissect various literary masterpieces, etc.—but somehow, answering this single, simple question feels impossible. Maybe we’re just searching in all the wrong places.
You’re convinced that who you are is buried somewhere deep, hidden beneath the layers you’ve piled on. You peel them away, each one feeling like it should reveal something raw and untouched, something truer. But each layer is just another version of ourselves you cast aside, each one marking an attempt at something more real than the last. What’s left when we strip them all away? The more you peel, the more it burns. Every layer a part of you that you may never get back. You’re surrounded in a of you. Your glassy eyes take a good look at them as your mind torments you, “Are you happy now? Was it worth the cost?”
The burning continues, now a searing pain that spreads through your bloodstream, and every organ in your body is screaming agonizingly at you to stop. But you can’t. There’s something so cathartic yet tragic about peeling the layers off. You know very well that you shouldn’t, so why don’t you stop?
After there’s nothing left to peel, all you’re left with is an ache—phantom pain, if you will—that you can’t deny is a yearning for all the layers you know you’ll never reclaim. In the moments that follow, there’s no revelation, no clarity.
Rather, the feeling that you have in fact buried yourself deeper.
The mitski lyrics are so real
This is so beautiful and also so relatable 😭. Thank you for the mention!