The way the seam of my jeans presses into my skin when i sit just so, that tiny constant irritation that I can’t quite ignore but can’t quite fix either, just live with. like that conversation that replays on loop, the one where i said the wrong thing, or didn’t say enough, and now it’s a permanent crease in my brain, a chafing point that reminds me of my own awkwardness. But maybe that's it? Maybe the itch is the price of admission, the cost of trying, of putting myself out there, of being imperfectly, undeniably ME. Like @Ollie said, the other day, we're all just wearing ill-fitting clothes. It's the phantom buzz of my phone in my pocket, even when it's dead or upstairs, that's the real ill-fitting garment. The expectation of constant availability, the pressure to DO instead of BE, that's what rubs me raw these days.