I Am the Chaos
Is being myself the cost of living?
Author’s note:
Lately, I’ve been learning that the parts of myself I love most are often the hardest ones to live with.
Dedicated to every neurodivergent person who has ever loved who they are and still wondered why being themselves has to cost so much.
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Verse 1
Down the fields
through the cloudy sky,
a girl travels
to Edinburgh.
Before she departs,
her smile glows
inside the crowds.
Tears flow
when she’s alone
in her house.
The train arrives.
Medieval buildings
entering my sight
in the land of literature.
I sip my glass,
poured red wine
without a gap
on the first night.
It’s a gift,
an exception,
a celebration
of my arrival.
Two weeks pass.
Two empty bottles,
one wine,
one Bailey’s,
sit in my room.
I make friends
fast,
soak in the craft.
Sena smiles and says,
“People are saying
you’re the most talented.”
Compelled by my words,
arriving so suddenly
after a crying storm,
the world disappears,
leaving me
with my ink
while I miss the last train,
stranded in St Andrews.
My breath returns
with inspiration
while everything I touch
becomes a ruin.
Chorus
They say she brings chaos.
I say I am the chaos.
Which one you choose,
I don’t mind.
People define my narrative
long before I try.
Verse 2
Laura plays the piano.
Her finger presses Do.
Something in me says no.
Not to the melody,
but to where I began to fall.
The music floods my body,
dissolves every thought
in its wake,
while I weep
for my legs.
Too sore.
Too tired
to take another step
that carries destruction.
Laura’s body sways
as she continues to play.
I sink deeper into myself,
leaning on the counter
of the library cafe.
It breaks.
I ask for help.
“It’s fine,” they say.
“It happens all the time.”
I fasten my pace,
leaving the crime scene,
while the air carries
the man’s words:
“It didn’t break
like this before.”
I put my bag on the floor.
The tobacco spills.
My hands,
familiar with garbage,
pick up the pieces of me.
Nathalia’s face appears,
asking for her pen,
long lost,
buried in yesterday
with tomorrow’s hopes.
Days pass.
I worry about the pen.
I’m the chaos,
not something
for other people to endure.
I remember the earth
like yesterday,
when I saw the sea
flattened like a sheet,
untouched by my flesh
bringing filth
no one can know
unless they enter
where I live.
My walls are up,
high like the castle
of Edinburgh,
outward
and inward.
Not a hostage
or a prisoner.
My being—chaos
overruled by mannerisms.
As long as I look like a princess
to the outside world,
all is well.
They like my energy
until I lose their pen too.
Chorus
They say she brings chaos.
I say I am the chaos.
Which one you choose,
I don’t mind.
People define my narrative
long before I try.
Verse 3
A gloomy day in Edinburgh.
I see a tower, octagonal,
sharp like the edge
of a North Star.
I lost its trace.
I used to be funny.
People still laugh at me,
not at what I’m hiding,
but at the stories that come with it.
How does another story
make it any better
for a good storyteller
who has plenty?
Nothing feels true,
and nothing feels wrong.
I keep finding myself
locked out of my own door.
I smell the haze,
run after a bicycle,
proud of my courage
that returns to me
as another destruction.
Chorus
They say she brings chaos.
I say I am the chaos.
Which one you choose,
I don’t mind.
People define my narrative
long before I try.
Verse 4
Nathalia says,
on the last day,
“Keep being you,
the world needs more of it.”
I’m tired from everything
that leaves me
with yet another apology.
Being myself
became costly.
Am I simply paying
the cost of living?
I searched for home
for far too long.
Now I carry it
everywhere I go,
yet I can’t afford
to pay the rent
rising with my breath.
Is
being
myself
the cost of living?
Chorus
They say she brings chaos.
I say I am the chaos.
Which one you choose,
I don’t mind.
People define my narrative
long before I know how.
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You carry your shadow with you. Give it a good hug; it sounds like integration has already begun.
This feels like such a vulnerable exploration of the tension between loving who you are and wondering why being that person can sometimes feel so costly. The line about people defining your narrative before you do really stayed with me. There is something painful about being celebrated for your energy while simultaneously learning that some people only welcome it when it arrives in a form they can comfortably hold. Beautifully raw writing.