Monday, April 8, 2013

Remember that one time when I posted some honest shiznit on the internet...

I'm going to break this bad boy up into two posts because it's a long one...and yes my life is personal, and yes some things should be kept that way, but for some reason I felt inclined to share this.  I'm not ashamed or embarrassed, and I think it speaks volumes about who I am today.  


Sometimes I question whether I am secure with myself or not.  I tend to think I am an upbeat, confident person, but then I wonder if that is just on the outside, and if I am putting on a front, even for myself. 

I know in high school I was not confident.  The 10th grade me would strongly disagree, but she’s wrong, and I’m right.  I didn’t like the way I looked, the way I talked, the way I spoke out of turn and the most random shit that came out of my mouth.  I wasn’t confident in my relationship, even though I had the most supportive, polite, and caring boyfriend.  I had parents who lifted me up, yet I don’t think I really ever felt truly “comfortable”. 

In college I definitely learned more about myself.  I still babbled on about the stupidest shit.  I have a dry sense of humor and more often than not it left me feeling embarrassed or misunderstood.  I definitely took the opportunity to change myself a bit, since this was a chance to start fresh where very few people knew me.  I became ridiculously organized and anxious.  I wouldn't hang out with friends on Friday until my homework was done.  I had straight up panic attacks if my dresser drawers were not organized, if my underwear were not neatly folded and held upright in a shoe box (never mind the fact that they were all some pattern or color of Victoria Secret cotton underwear).   I reorganized my room monthly and overhauled the entire arrangment of the place.  I stressed about every little thing, and I had very little trust.  I went home on weekends, and proceeded to bring items from home to college, and vice versa, so I could create the perfect space to live comfortably.  And I spent my weekends at home generally cleaning and organizing my bedroom there, and spending time with my boyfriend and family. 

During this time, my grandma lived in the cities, and I never wanted to waste a day at home driving in.  I wanted to be home, where I felt the most comfortable, and not wasting my time away from there. 

During high school and college, I kept journals.  They were my therapy.  My place to digress and let it all out.  Yet I was so effing blinded by some ridiculous lie that I never even shared my true feelings in my journal.  I just sugar coated the shit out of that too.  Sure I had the annoying little sister that would read my journal when I was younger.  But that’s not why I did it.  I honestly have no clue but sometimes when I go through my old stuff and come across some of my journals, I start reading them and quickly get sick to my stomach.  Because I am taken back to that time of uneasiness, of distrust.  That time where I felt I had to paint flowers and daisies for a journal I kept for myself.

I honestly don’t know where any of these feelings derived from.  I can chalk it up to pure lack of understanding.  Or just the simple fact that I was young and didn’t know myself.  I loved my childhood.  I have so many fond memories, and I experienced so much.  I was lucky and blessed, and that is a truth.  I have two parents who love me and two wonderful siblings.  I have a great family, immediate and extended.  While there have been dark times and uncertain moments, there have been more times of joy and support.  I truly have an awesome support system. 

I also know that I was lucky to experience depression when I was 20 years old.  It changed my life, and while it sucked huge ass balls, it made me who I am today, and I would take that over who I was back then any day. 

And if anyone were to ever say depression is not real, I can’t force them to think it is, but I can share my story, and know deep down that it is.  And yet, I completely understand them and the point they make.  I used to be just like them.  I had family members who were depressed, and I didn’t believe it exsisted.  I think I sometimes felt they were having a little pity party, even though the individuals in my life who suffered from depression kept it very private and I knew little about what they were going through.  I didn’t understand how a trip to Target, a walk in the park, or dinner with friends didn’t instantly bring them happiness.  I 100% believed they were making something out of nothing. 

Until August of 2006…

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