5/13/24

As I lay in bed this morning, counting the squares of my blue gingham sheets, looking around my room for some semblance of me, I think to myself that I may be more of a vertical red and white stripe kind of person. Though when I bought them, blue and white felt like something that could encapsulate why it is I cry so hard when I say goodbye to my Mother, red might tie into my desire to be liked a little better. 

When I go thrifting, I search for myself among the shelves of discarded dry-erase calendars and broken magazine racks, simultaneously scanning my Pinterest boards as a reminder of what I like. I find golden picture frames and orange tulle curtains that remind me of Summers at my Grandparents' house, of which I know belong with me. But I hold in my hand an intricately designed jewelry box that I know I like, but for some odd reason can't find a reason for my desire to own it. I hear frequently we should disregard what others say looks good, and rely solely on our own intuition on such decisions, and I remind myself of this as I place the box back on the shelf I found it on - it doesn't go with anything else I have. By the time I get home, I've mentally set aside a solid three-hour time slot in my day specifically for the thought process of deciding what goes where. I move the pictures on my walls to make space for the new ones and subsequently rearrange the trinkets on display on my shelves, so obviously I should reorganize my shelves as well, and make my bed so the final result looks that much more satisfying. After 5 hours have gone by, my desk is now in my closet, there are a dozen new tack holes in my plaster walls, my bed has rotated 90 degrees and lies next to a different wall, and every pillowcase has been changed. My room is an entirely different color, and my walls are decorated more concisely than any modern cafe could dream of accomplishing.

 Since I moved into my tiny apartment almost 3 years ago, I have redone myself and consequently my space more times than I care to count. At 19, I felt desirable and fresh, I hung vinyl on my walls, and the coordinating posters found hidden in the slipcover of disk C on another. My sheets were a tan jersey knit, and my knickknacks were displayed appropriately across my windowsill. By the time I realized it was my Dad's first time in life too, my sheets were dark green, the vinyls were tucked into one corner, and shelves were put up to free up the clutter along my window, and for the first time, my curtains remained drawn closed. When Summer break started, and I missed Susquehanna River more than usual, the vinyls were gone, and replaced by a wall of my growing collection of clocks - the only thing that hasn't moved since it found its place - the posters had been tucked away, and I changed all the pictures in their frames for something more true to my experience with queerness. If my room is a reflection of me, am I a "bed next to the window" person, or am I a good friend? I rearrange and reorganize until I find myself in the open space between my door and where I lie awake at night, tucked between pillows that smell like Beabadoobee and playing Lego Star Wars on the Wii with my Sister. Each time I rearrange, it stems from a desire for change; a fresh start, a new space, a new me. 

 I'm a twink. I'm androgynous. I'm skinny. I'm hot if I had a jawline. I'm kind. I'm compassionate. I'm a cunt. I'm a faggot. I'm basic. I'm big-boned. I'm sweet. I'm independent. I'm mean. I'm myself. I'm a lot of things, according to everyone else, but how do I navigate where I am within all these words? A room is meant to be an encapsulation of you; your space, your stuff, your you. But what if I don't know what I look like? What I like? What I want to like? For the past few years, my days have been spent pondering these questions, and every year I get to a point where I feel I know myself better than I ever have before, only to hit a point shortly after in which I know strangers better than I know my own wants and desires. Admittedly this is not exclusive to myself, nor that uncommon in general. The 20s are meant for these moments, as the 10s are meant to prepare you for them. But as the circuit continues on for its nth lap, it becomes a bigger and brighter question mark over my head. 

Every interaction I have is a cause for self-reflection. To sit alone with my thoughts, and ask myself difficult questions, not only about self-identity, but also about what I want to appear as. Just as my room is equivocally a sense of pleasure as it is a sense of stress, my clothes and music follow suit. In the last 5 months and 13 days, my identity has been shaken to the roots, for reasons unknown to me, and this has caused a trickle-down effect culminating in this blog post. My music has changed, from a diet of mostly Deftones, Faye Webster, and Fiona Apple, to Mitski, Doechii, and Ke$ha. My style has changed from baggy pants and oversized T-shirts to boxer shorts and anything in a size Small. My room has changed more since the beginning of the year than probably the entirety of 2023. Part of this, in my head, is a result of my age, and a deep-seated desire to have my shit together, and lose the childlike aesthetic of a teenager's first big-boy apartment. And while I welcome the change, and in fact, enjoy the eras of my life in which I can feel myself becoming something new, I also can feel the assurance I worked hard at earning dissipating with each discarded T-shirt that I used to wear weekly.

 I try my best not to view change as a negative, despite the discomfort it can cause. The way I see it, change is necessary, especially in this part of my life, for finding myself later down the line. I think a big part of why it feels so scary at this age is because I'm far from reaping the benefits of such mental gymnastics. Most find themselves much later on, and my generation is only hyper-fixated on the self as a part of the impact that things like TikTok shedding light on everyone and everything happening. People are more exposed at this point in time than they ever have been before, and it's created a space in which every single person is lurching for the first opportunity to have their own unique brand image. My room, my music, my style, is no exception to this dilemma. To me, presenting myself accurately is more important than anything else. While we all encourage others to love things for the sake of loving them and to disregard others' opinions, we do so in a way that emphasizes the importance of authenticity. And that is the issue I found myself in, and the cause of the questions I have yet to answer. I don't know who I am, furthermore, I would be surprised if anyone my age truly did, so how do I know if I'm being authentic or not?