Lifestats: articles – too many; Google – carrot cake vegan icing (no dairy diet); Money earned – not enough; Count of fear – high.

I wish for a lot of things. I wish I were more conscious of myself, more self-aware, more grounded; I wish I were less frustrated and happier. I wish I had better boundaries, better body, better everything. I wish I did more work, I wish I had more self belief.

I wish I didn’t have to write things out, and if I do, I wish for more audience. I wish I had a better blog, about something else, less self-obsessive than my tired mental health. I wish I were less dramatic. I wish I were better at meditation. I wish I believed in my dancing and singing enough to actually practice it. I wish I had the courage to leave social media when I need to work. I wish I had a cleaner room. I wish I could watch Netflix series all day, without feeling the guilt – but I also wish I watched 2 episodes and then followed the inner drive that tells me to do some work. I wish I didn’t try to subconsciously cook and clean more because I’m unemployed and my partner is supporting me – I wish I applied for jobs more, not appeasing some invisible female duties. I wish my partner were less frustrated. I wish, I wish, a prayer of the powerless.

I wrote this poem, about a year ago “Where do you keep your power”. Recently I tried to read it out loud in rehearsals, and man, I break in tears. As most poems, I wrote it for others, but for myself – if I stopped questioning myself all the time, if I believed. I can believe. There is a space for me to believe in myself, and I have to have courage to inhabit it.

I am ashamed for writing this. There are people with bigger problems for sure. Here I am, in this empty space I created in myself, too scared to step out. I’m not fighting for my life – or am I? I’m fighting with my brain, which tells me all the time that I suck. I am fighting with my habits, with lack of self love. I am grateful for all the good things – maybe not grateful enough; I look at everything with perfectionist eye of “things to be fixed” – so the things that don’t need to be fixed don’t even get noticed.

I wished I wrote all the articles I come up with, or at least most. I wish I didn’t lose belief halfway through the thought, nevermind the project. I wish I could help people, I wish I could change people’s lives. Is that naive? Perhaps I’m just the funny girl. Perhaps all that angst is for nothing and I can do some stand-up comedy. Look at me, all dismissive. That is worthy, too. I feel like I have so many sides of me and I can’t create a stable personality, a stable brand, idea. But perhaps I can. Maybe it’s okay to be all that I am. The poet, the singer, the voice. The writer, the teller, the dance. The messy, crying, sensitive, self-obsessed, humorous, witty, occasionally ironic, mostly charming, fucking intense person that I am – nevermind all the things I want to become.

I am capable of change. But if I don’t like step one, change will not satisfy me either. If I can’t celebrate my current self, exercise everyday – despite extra endorphines – will not move me into self-love. It could help, but the thinking of “I should be doing XYZ, instead” will stay.

Perfectionism is capitalism of self. All we want is more, more, more. And better. It’s okay to be more efficient. But conditional self-love doesn’t fucking work, now does it?