I am suffocating in my identity

My identity is like a crocheted blanket, and my hands won't stop knitting.

I don’t know who I am anymore.

I don’t know how much of me is a projection of what I believe people want to see. Some days, I wonder if I am so good at pretending that I have forgotten myself in the act. Torn between two souls, I can feel my stomach twisting, as if swallowing all the lies of my identity is starting to make me physically ill.

There’s so many opinions. So many subliminal messages. Subtle changes in body language. So much information that I’ve consumed from my parents, friends, teachers, and strangers both offline and online. It feels like my brain is partly mine, and partly others.

My identity is like a crocheted blanket. There are different coloured squares knitted together to form a big blanket. Each square represents a piece of me. I look whole, but really I’m fragmented into tiny pieces that are knitted together to create a facade of completeness. Perhaps the purpose of this blanket is to comfort me against the truth. To keep me wrapped up in its illusory warmth and lull me to sleep. I wonder if it’s supposed to keep me in a haze so I don’t question how it was made.

When I talk to you, I can’t tell if I’m just knitting another square for my blanket, another accessory to add to my identity. Am I showing you who I truly am, or am I simply showing you what I think you want to see? I wonder if I’ve become so used to pleasing people that it’s formed my identity.

Each new experience comes with a new square, and the blanket gets bigger and bigger. Slowly suffocating me until I am no longer lucid. I am lost in the squares of my identity. Consumed little by little by the blanket I made with my own two hands. It feels as if I’m locked in a box with water slowly creeping up, rising from my feet to my knees, reaching my waist, drifting up to my shoulders. Eventually, the silky coolness tickles the nape of my neck. I’m on the tips of my toes, reaching for the few inches of space where the water hasn’t touched. I breathe in my last few breaths before the water submerges my entire body.

It’s 1am. I lie awake at night, questioning who I’ll be tomorrow. I yearn to be myself, but I’m afraid I don’t know who I am. So perhaps I’ll keep knitting to distract myself from these thoughts. Maybe the more I knit, the more I’ll know. Or perhaps I’ll keep drowning in the weight of these threads. I’m either getting closer to who I am, or further away. But I can’t stop now. This is all I know.

I was taught how to crochet as soon as I was born. I had to in order to survive. We all did. We had to be liked, otherwise we’d risk losing our lives. We’d dispose of the squares that displeased people and create new ones that were deemed favourable. The ones that made people react positively: laughter; affection; rewards; love. I must keep knitting more of that. I need you to like me, please. Otherwise, this blanket won’t be big enough to keep me warm, and I’ll freeze to death.

I think I’ll be forever questioning if I knitted this for you, or if I knitted this for me.

I’m suffocating in my identity, but my hands won’t stop knitting.

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What I’ve been enjoying lately:

• Book: The second book in the (unfinished, grr) Kingkiller Chronicles — The Wise Man’s Fear by Patrick Rothfuss. This series never fails to transport me to a new realm.

• TV Series: Attack on Titan. I know, I know. “How have you not seen it?”. Well, I’m watching it now and all I can say is DAMN, THIS IS WILD.

• Music: Anything Spiritbox or Cleo Sol or Melody Gardot. Crazy mix, but you’ve gotta have a tune for every mood.

• Activity: Walking and listening to Classical music hits different, I feel like it allows me to synthesise my thoughts and romanticise my surroundings.

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