Identity Crisis

So I woke up today with starring in the scummy puddle of life with a protruding pout asking this:

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Since moving back to London, I have struggled with different parts of me facing off against one another like lady sumo wrestlers in a vat of jelly. It comes from a place of panic where I’ve secured something epic that I’m so afraid of losing it that I crush it in the chubby bits of my palm.

So as a result, there is the achingly large element of holding ones back ever since I landed this dream job. Out of fear. Because my components are literally 50% pop culture references and 40% the constant wailing of…

You’re not good enough.
The other 10%, residing predominantly in my boobs, is a somewhat nice and confident person. (I don’t know – maybe, possible? It’s hard to tell.)

As mentioned, they are often in mid head-lock, slamming into each other at alarming rates and causing an earthquake of panic attacks to rush through me. I’m pretty much the referee trying to put a stop to the chaos but am body-slammed by rolls of chub and rage.

The problem with having an obsessive personality and anxiety is that you’re always trying to analysis yourself and see yourself from other people’s points of view. Do you know when you go to a House of Mirrors and see a deformed version of yourself? Having this element inside of you is like looking at that mirror like…

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I am so afraid of messing up or hurting someone that I have cocooned my personality away and propped up this inflatable model of myself to hide behind, that is tentatively trying to make the right movies as not to burst and reveal myself – naked.  It comes from having been that person who dragged people through the gutter with me during the worst of times and also having been nitpicked or under a gigantic lens which happens when the closer you get to success. The more I get into what I’ve dreamed of, the more you have to prove yourself and the high you get up the ladder, the more people are going to try and shake you off – seeing you as incompetent, stupid, and heinously naïve.

But here’s a massive mug of“ T:” a large component of my latest batshit struggle is my recent emerging obsession with drag queen Katya – a famed contestant of RuPaul’s Drag Race who I loved when Season 7 aired and now have a complete infactuation. Namely because she is so open with her own crippling anxiety and past addiction but also because she channelled it into her humour which, hilariously, is on point. It also, what I think, largely like my own – part surreal, part disgusting, and complete unabashed. And watching her has reconnected myself with this that I’ve scurried away like a squirrel’s nuts (oo-er) for months. Yet, because my brain is a special brand of dickhead, I’ve woken with this inner struggle that’s screaming: “Hey, maybe your just imitating her because you want to be successful too.

“Erm, no?” was my initial thought followed by  bars and bars of “but maybe?”

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Is that strange or natural? Do we emulate who we admire or do we admire them because they are a facet of our own selves? Answers on a postcard.

Here’s the other  cup of delicious and boiling “T,” when you see someone who is succeeding in an area you are currently failing (or middling,) you try to emulate what they do in order to  So I find myself looking at my peers and people I admire like “maybe I should try that.” Borrowing little bits and making them your action plan is genuinely how people play that game (right?) but I fear that I am just masquarding, copying because I’ve always felt less than and I just want to feel more than. The desperation is a stench one doesn’t wear well and I fear that people could smell it – the stink lines clear above my head.

I guess I am being too hard on myself: After all, I have been through the ringer of crisis’ that have either altered who I am or added a thick layer of anxiety to my personality. My emotional gauge has always swung to extremes like that pendulum Linkin Park wail about in that song about one thing and not knowing why. So when shit hits the proverbial fan, I freak out and scurry back into my cave as the chubby deer that I am, wishing to stay in the darkness where no one can judge me but myself. And, frankly, fuck that gal.


Yet, truthfully, underneath this layer of moss covered crap, is the realisation that this is just being human: A transition state of mind where I am coming to terms with not being on my Dad’s couch anymore and actually having the chance to succeed in an industry that I think I’m good at with an aptitude for silliness, a flare for the dramatics, and a unique view on this world that I’m desperately trying to get a handle of.

I can feel myself breaking free – but am I soaring? Am I flying? Only time can tell…

All I know, and hope, is that we’re all in this together….

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