Dear me,
I am so fed up with the "I am enough" era.
Or maybe I'm just becoming a bitch.
I can't help but feel fire crawling up my spine and anger boiling in me every time I hear another "you are enough" sold on discount by another life fixer on Instagram.
Fuck that.
Human potential is dying because comfort became a virtue.
"I am enough" became modern fear disguised as self-acceptance.
And maybe I hate it so much because I see myself in it too.
Safety alert: adapt to a life someone else built. From the outside it looks like a good life. Better — attach yourself to someone else's for the very same reason.
But have you ever seen an elephant forcing itself onto a circus rope never made to hold its weight?
That's what life pushing back feels like.
And alcohol, sex, and victimhood are amazing for the 2–3 hour high of it.
But just that.
Short.
Sharp.
Self-destroying.

—

Dear me,
Enough?
What does enough actually mean?
Enough for who?
Enough for what?
And what if enough is not enough anymore?
What if enough was never supposed to be the final destination?
Why does comfort make me feel so uncomfortable?
Maybe because comfort asks for nothing.
No confrontation.
No pressure.
No responsibility.
Just stay exactly where you are and call it healing.
"He was the problem."
"The family is the problem."
"Everything else is the problem."
And maybe sometimes it is.
But isn't turning yourself into the permanent victim just another way of avoiding the work?
Another way of making the crowd feel sorry enough for you so you never have to change anything?
"She is lucky."
"For her it's easy."
"I want that life."
But is she?
And can someone really hold a better life just because they want it?
Isn't it like performing the exact same way for twenty years at work and then asking why you never got promoted?
All these questions have been destroying my mind lately, and even if I change my mind later, I have to face them now.
Even if they go against every modern understanding of self-love.
Because I can't pretend not to hear something that keeps scratching underneath my skin every single time I hear it.
And isn't that what becoming actually is?
Not avoiding the things that disturb you — but following them until they either destroy you or transform you.
You know what?
I would rather rip myself open now than spend another twenty years emotionally sedated.
I have no more life left for avoidance.
Only to break into it.
And whatever comes out on the other side, it will finally be mine.