What I Need to Say When I Need to Say Something

I’m sitting here, smoking in my room because I have the house to myself, and thinking:

Fuck it.

I’m sick of being So. Fucking. Good.

I’ve had enough of not having sex on the first date, let alone with strangers. Of no longer taking drugs. Of getting anxious around the smell of pot and being shy with guys. Of my need for approval from those in authority.

There is a duality in me, like in all people to some extent, which confuses and frightens me.
I yearn for the self-destructive consumption of alcohol, yet I’m equally repulsed by the lack of self-control it represents.
I am intense and violent in my sexuality but, until very recently, felt horrified and dirty at the thought of presenting anything other than the illusion of pious virginity to my parents. Not to mention the impression I make on men of being intimidating and difficult.
I have a merciless contempt for anything conventional and popular – musically, sartorially, artistically – but I long for the simple sexuality of blonde hair and fake breasts and have a secret playlist of pop R&B songs that I listen to when noone is around to hear it.
I spent a good part of my life trying to starve myself to death, can tell you the caloric content of almost any food you could name, use Equal, drink soy, eat organic… but nothing warms my heart more than deep-fried slivers of potato covered in chicken flavoured sodium chloride with some form of processed meat product. And as a child I would cry myself to sleep about the state of the world and wake up having wet the bed, but these days I eat McDonald’s and never give money to people in the street, as if the $42 a month I send to Lidia Rodriguez in Honduras somehow frees me from any further responsibility or guilt.

I am a walking contradiction and I no longer know how much of this is natural human caprice and how much has come about as a result of attempting to fit my passionate, intense, violent and self-destructive personality into the outlines of the body I’ve chosen to present to the world. But what I do know is that I’m sick of holding it all together. I want to spill out over the edges of my carefully drawn lines and run screaming at the world while I’m still young enough and beautiful enough to do so.

That’s what I want to do.
But after twenty odd years of building up walls, how the fuck am I meant to break them down now?