I never fit into just one place. There wasn’t enough containment. Pieces of me overflowed in every place I’d been. Like the odd shape trying to fit in predetermined holes. I was around many groups and I had been many things, but not many places saw the whole me.
I tried to break myself apart. Pieces of my soul and heart. Get them to places where they fit. Feel like they belonged there. But there were always pieces left. And even when all the pieces found a home, they still missed the old familiar feeling of being one.
Too dramatic. Too intense. Too complex. I accepted myself as being “too” — people can fill in the blanks.
Life was built on fragmented pieces of identity. Small. Palatable pieces. Toned-down voices. Performative personas. Fragments that make sense to a world that runs on labels.
But lately those pieces have been screaming. Those pieces have been crying. Like tiny little magnets spread across the table, all urging and pulsing towards each other. Trying to reconnect what has been dormant. Bring together the pieces that were taken.
It’s this weird feeling when your parts urge for each other. They disrupt the perfectly tailored places you’ve made yourself fit. They reject the shapes and sizes you shrunk yourself to.
All of a sudden nothing fits. And you feel the aching need to be restored in full shape. The weird little you you hid away.
It’s an urgent call for integration. To be whole. To be you. No matter how many places you need to leave. No matter how many faces become undone. How many masks fall to the ground. You are just urging to be you.
It feels unfamiliar. The aggregate of parts is wonkier than the polished shapes it got used to. It feels vulnerable to be real. It feels vulnerable to be one. You were undone for just so long… it takes time to feel together.
You might feel that this is wrong. The broken pieces were more comfortable. More accepted. But don’t let that derail the process. Fitting in is different than belonging.
