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mental stability: soft launch

 

 

translated from german

 

sometimes i think my poetry ends where my english begins. like i’m dipping one finger into the inkwell of my vocabulary and trying to make do with whatever sticks to my skin, in a world where i’ve always felt more than i could ever put into words.

then i think: okay girl, let’s calm down.

i didn’t spend years learning a whole language just to gatekeep my own emotions from myself.

for me, and for the right side of my brain.

but my english writing will always be different. forever new to me, like a craft that will always be one step behind the one i already know. and still familiar, in the way my world now unfolds through anglicisms. german only shows up when i’m spiraling or on the phone with my dad.

so here is my journal entry. out of respect for my roots, in german. and for the people around me, in english. may the world translate it. may i find the words to express the things i feel, without collapsing under the mental loading bar of not being able to get it quite right.

 

three weeks ago, i moved to paris.

it’s monday, 8:37 pm, and the sun just disappeared behind the building across from mine. it no longer burns against my curtains. the air drifting into my room now is cool, and i feel calmer than before.

i’m lying in bed in my underwear, with a bowl of cereal and an open anaïs nin diary on my lap.

this city has given me a new beginning. one i can’t quite grasp yet. it’s strange, the duality i find within myself each time i open up to a new place. i crave change like a vitamin deficiency, and still, i feel overwhelmed. by strangers. by unfamiliar brands of pasta. by people who know what they’re doing at the post office. by the sheer volume of living i absorb in one day, and how quickly i feel low again when the noise dies down.

 

on thursday i’ll turn twenty-two. on may twenty-second, twenty twenty-five.

it’s my favorite number, number 2, and still my favorite day of the year, even though it loses a little of its magic with every passing one.

i don’t feel that same sense of excitement i used to feel. no nerves in the days leading up to a new year, no eager anticipation for some big celebration.

i’ve found, over time, a kind of ongoing festivity for my whole year. it’s called “living with the mind of an anxious woman.”

so many highs and lows carry me through my days that i can hardly distinguish special occasions anymore. i just use them as markers to leap from one little joyful fact of daily life to the next.

to distract me from myself.

from my dullness.

from the ongoing inner labor it takes to live a seemingly “normal” life with a neurodivergent mind.

but this isn’t meant to be a gloomy entry. (and anyway, gloom rarely makes me sad. it just helps me see clearly)

 

i don’t want to talk about new beginnings either. been there, overshared that. and if there’s one thing that blog entry made clear, it’s that no new beginning, no matter how big or small, can change the internal predisposition i carry.

that sits elsewhere. and it’s up to me to handle it.

 

new beginnings trick me. they make me think i can take out my brain, rinse it under cold water like spaghetti, and put it back in clean.

(the oddly specific daydream i’ve had since i was a child) spoiler: that doesn’t work

new beginnings push wind into my sails. they give me a chance to leave behind pieces of the old me,

but even with a cute new postal code, i’m still me.

i like new beginnings.

but this week, i’m trying something else.

i’m focusing on staying

 

i’ve left so many things behind in the past, chasing the idea that freedom lives somewhere else.

that if i run far enough or meet enough people or learn enough languages,

i’ll eventually trick myself into being whole. but the art of staying, that's a whole different topic

 

i’m learning not to expect unrealistic things from myself.

growth takes time. it’s not a montage.

it’s me in my bed at 8pm, eating cereal, wondering if i’m wasting my twenties.

and then going outside anyway. it takes patience. and it never (especially in my case) happens overnight.

symbolic new beginnings matter more anyway.

a new chance to not lose myself to my thoughts.

new beginnings that come from doing the hard, unphotogenic stuff.

from loving myself.

from being still.

from not ghosting my own progress.

 

so instead of running off with the fantasy of reinvention,

i’m choosing to be here

 

i’m learning how to say “i need a new charger” in french, and not to turn disappointments into beliefs. i’m learning to greet people with kisses instead of hugs and to guess the right cheek first (50/50 success rate), and to ride a bike through rush hour traffic and survive it.

i’m learning how to ask where the eggs are at monoprix,

where to hear live music by the seine on weekends,

how long the birds stay awake in the evenings.

i’m learning to make language mistakes instead of avoiding language altogether.

to build my own poke bowl instead of asking for a pre-made one (despite said language mistakes).

i’m learning from my indian roommates to soak chickpeas in water instead of buying them canned,

and to carry truths that don’t get lighter just because you name them out loud.

i’m learning from late sunsets against black building facades, how to find my train at saint-lazare, what mon choux means, what time the elderly neighbors across the street go to bed, how tall the eiffel tower is, how much i love scrolling through my camera roll, the cost of a train from paris to strasbourg, the cost of self-doubt

how many lanterns line my street and when they switch on,

how long our bodies remember trauma,

and how long i’ve forgotten how much i’ve really been learning

 

i’m learning to love slowly,

i’m learning not to run away,

i’m learning to stay in my warm room. in warm company.

 

i hope this week, you stay exactly where it feels right to be.

for me, right now?

that’s here,

with myself