day140 - thoughtless
your therapist looks up at you from her notes with her head cocked to the side. dogs do that sometimes when you say a word they almost understand. why do they both evoke the same feeling? curiosity laced with a faint and unplaceable recognition.
"You're very self aware. Do you realise that?", she asks. The question following the statement doesn't feel rhetorical and it makes you laugh, not out loud but like, intellectually: the thought of being so self-aware but not actually being self-aware enough to know how self-aware you are.
You choose your words carefully enough, "I think so", you say, as if you haven't been painfully aware of every neatly placed social domino you've knocked over to the disappointment and frustration of your peers.
You were no playground anarchist, deftly exposing the absurdity of what it means to be normal, you felt like a Beyblade set loose in a crystal cabinet. You were perfectly content to spin in place, but your natural momentum always seemed to carry you off into the most delicate and breakable heirlooms.
After a while it got easier, you stopped breaking things as often. You could control it for the most part, but when you got upset it all came back even more intense.
"I worry that…believing that I'm exceptionally self aware makes it easier for me to avoid accountability", you eventually say, which could mean nothing at all.
If you have a water filter, you'd probably replace that at least twice a year, if not quarterly. doesn't it seem wrong that your filter has never once been replaced? things have been seeping through, dirt and assorted contaminants. self awareness can't save you from it and you hope that any damage will be minimal and easy to clean