Killing Karen

I came to Rome on November 15th, 2024; it's 21st March 2026 today. And I think I just wanted my voice to be out here.

In the short span of 16 months and 16 days, I've witnessed multiple murders of the SELF.

A significant one being that of Karen, the artist. What's the real reason she became one? Does she even love it? Was it an honest pursuit or one forced by survival? An undertaking of grandpa's whispers? One born from the desire to please? 

Oh, this desire to please. It ruins one's soul. Distorts what one truly likes or doesn't like; it distorts what one wants to say No or Yes to; it distorts the concept of consent.

Did I consent to being an artist? Or was it Nana's voice that compelled me to accomplish the label? Did I consent to my first kiss, or did I just want to perform the idea of the role I was playing, which was, according to Western media, the things a girlfriend does for her boyfriend?

Did I consent to being a strong working girl? Or was it the coping mask I needed to hold it all together, for my parents, who lost their first child?

34 years have passed by me. 21 of those have been disguised. A whole adult of legal drinking age. 

The first 13 of them can't exactly be said to be blissful. Mum was always angry and yelling at Dad and Nana. blaming them for her life. her ruined potential, the men who oppressed her, disrespected her, denied her.

Unsupportive, selfish men. One who can't be trusted. One who can't fulfill her dreams of having a home of her own. She lived her life serving Nana, the dogs, dad, and the kids. her own? I have no Idea. I never saw it, apart from her shopping expeditions. 

Where was I again? Yes, did I consent to being the strong working girl to keep it all together? NO. 

I didn't know if I could live without fearing Men, fearing disappointing the people around me, and being the cause of my mom's anger. Scared that I may set her off to another story of regret and victimhood. I was not the poster child my sister was. I did do what I wanted and knew how to get attention by performing for others, a little laugh here, a little impressive creative thing there. All to be seen, acknowledged, and recognized as special. 

Did I consent? Do I know how to give my consent? really? Am I in tune with how I really feel about how I'm engaging? serving? contributing? Am I really as honest to myself? The honesty I demand from the ones I date and never really get?

Am I as bad a liar? Is this all tied to my lack of understanding consent? So then what is my developed character? And why have I developed so much hatred for this young survival ego that was just a byproduct of wanting to be seen and acknowledged as loved and special? Good enough. Why did I try to kill her?

This version of her? Well, her anger is real. On one hand, she did give me so much competence and capacity in the arts. But then, she lured me into chambers of Men so dangerous, they emptied my capacity of soul, love, and innocence. 

Where was I again? Consent. No, coming to Rome. To connect with history and art and romanticize this version of my artist soul. Only to discover it's a hollow casing. The taste of being free from my society and everything I have known, my space, the people, and perceptions. They demanded an internal digging into why I was doing what I was doing. Blowing all my savings away to travel across oceans and seas to be here. To breathe? to rest? to sleep? Because that- in all honesty - is exactly what I was able to anchor and trust.

Trust. That has been absent in my own life. A sense of trusting myself. And that creates a stench of low esteem and anxiety that can be exhausting and a burden to the others around me. 

Coming to Rome really made me see the extent to which I hate myself. And that something must be done. A way to kill the hateful Karen and rebirth a version that understands and integrates and accepts anything and everything I have done thus far that has ushered in ruin & rise.

Rome, Cavour, 21st March 2026.