Labels & other nonsense

This is the first time in awhile that I cannot asleep. I laid down about three hours ago at 11:00 p.m.. I did feel a bit sleepy doing routine night time check – oven off, furnace working, lights off, porch light on, door locked, teeth brushed, toilet used, glasses off, pillow turned. But three hours until now, I laid there tossing and turning, changing the positions of my body parts to what seems comfortable, but my mind is screaming at me that it’s not time yet. I guess if there’s a night that not being able to sleep is a good one, then this one is it. I don’t have a class until 4 pm and then I have Young Adults at 7 pm so I can sleep in all I want, feeling good about the fact I have no homework or assignments to do. So, up goes the lid on my laptop and up opens Microsoft Word on my screen with the blinking curser awaiting me.

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I’ve been thinking about labels lately. Labels of people. Kind of like the status of their lives and what their known for. Kinda like Bonnie & Clyde, or the guy who spends his life at the gym, or even the lady next door who keeps quiet with her tens of thousands cats. Some are unjust, others stereotypical, or to me – inspirationally different. I think most kids start to develop labels in their younger years. For me, it was “I want the label rebellion”. And perhaps with the psychology behind things, I started acting like a rebel, being a rebel, and eventually the label was glued to my forehead. Describing myself in my elementary days as a tom-boy-up-to-no-good-monster is a complete understatement. I was not a nice kid and I liked to tattle tale. Yep. I was that girl who would do bad things but would tell on others when they did bad things. If there’s such thing as a mole in a group of children, I was it. Totally it. But I chose to do so, because that’s what I wanted to be known for. I’m surprised I even had friends – the very few I had. With many scraped knees, broken bones, and one badass attitude, it’s amazing how I’m quite different today.

But now. I don’t know what label I am. And that kind of scares me. Because as much as I hate looking back at my elementary/middle school years, at least I could say I knew who I was. I can easily say the labels of people I know – or make up ones if I don’t know or if I’m not sure. But for me? I really can’t identify myself.

I know who I would like to be. I have blog articles I read often posted by other authors, and I give them a label, and I say to myself, “It’d be cool to be them”. I have inspirational people in my head, words on my twitter feed, posters tacked on my walls, and I say to myself, “If only I could be just like them”. Because I’m in love with their label. Not them. Just their label. There’s so many people, so many different labels, that I force myself to read on a daily basis to remind myself that I am not THAT label that I want to be and that I should change – do something different. So people will know that I am that label - that I am of that character, and what they can expect from me.

But who am I to say such nonsense? Nobody even knows who I am. Not even myself! And what kind of label is that.

And I blab. And I write confusing things that nobody understands. And I sit here awake at 2:40 a.m. on a Monday morning wondering why I can’t sleep. And I listen to 8tracks alternative music, reminiscing the label I used to be. And I think about who I could be. And I don’t know what people think of me now. And. And? And.

 I think I’m okay with that.

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My hands are falling asleep now. And my mind is telling me it's time.

Goodnight.