I am ten different people. I am unsure of which is the right me, because, even when I’m alone, I’m not sure if the right me is the one analyzing me, or the right one is the one when I’m with friends, or when I’m with my family, or when I’m with my professors or when I’m among strangers, yet alone in a crowd.
Who is the right me? Who is the real me?
I am decidedly short. It is an univeral truth that I am short, dark skinned, wear black, thick-rimmed glasses and have thick curly hair.
But am I quiet? I am the loudest in my family and can be the loudest among some friends. In other groups, I do not say a word. I have so much to say to the ones I love, but nothing at all to say to some.
I am so broken in many ways, but in other ways I am strong and relentless. Sometimes I fall asleep in movies because I am so bored with the alternate reality. Sometimes I want to curl up in a ball under my covers, but most times I want to go on adventures around the world. I hate small talk with passion, and am extremely awkward and uncomfortable in social situations, but I ace interviews and daily have deep coversations about God and philosophy with my friends. I like to think and do things that matter.
I love to dream and think. I love coffee and chai and coffeeshops. I love hiking and going on adventures and driving in the car and having coversations about life. I love worshipping God. I love medicine and public health and the fact that I can use biochemistry to heal living, breathing people. I love reading books about the messiness of human relationships and the beauty of life. I love the sun and the mountains. I love music and the way I feel it reverberating it throughout me. I love to travel and be lost and be completely free, as if I am all alone and have no responsibilities.
But I am not good at loving these things. I am not good at anything, particularily. I am passionate, but that passion is developing. I do not have a defining characterstic or hobby that makes me, me. The person whom my family knows is not the girl my friends know; the girl that strangers meet is the not the girl who sings so passionately at Church on Sunday mornings.
I cannot help that I am a hypocrite, through and through. For I do not know who I am, for I am all of these things. I am bipolar and confused. I love and hate the same things at the same time. Sometimes I know exactly what I want and I am decidely impulsive and that is a good thing, but other times, I examine every factor and I do not know what is best for me. I am not sure if I feel or analyze and which is better.
I know that I am a Christian. I know that I am a stupid sheep in need of her Shepherd, but also a princess in the Kingdom of the Most High. I know that I am a target of demons and protected by angels. I know that I am a broken, beautiful masterpiece, formed and breathed into by God. I know that Satan tempts me, but God loves me, although sometimes it is hard to tell the difference.
Maybe I will never figure it out. At least on this earth, I will always be striving towards perfection– the perfection of Christ and of His power made perfect in our weakness and that asymptope of the version of me who lives in wholeness and shalom.