Truthfully, I’ve found myself in a bit of a rut. Not because I got my feelings hurt by a boy but because I have a stress disorder. I don’t talk about it much just as I don’t talk about my birth marks or eczema. It’s just part of me. I react to stress in extremes and lately I’ve fallen back on not leaving bed. I tell myself that I can’t go to the gym or meet up with friends for dinner or go to the grocery store because I’m tired. And honestly, at times I catch my body convincing itself that we aren’t hungry anyways. Every day I check social media and watch my friends or acquaintances broadcasting their productivity and it feels like they’re trying to motivate me but really I’m sinking deeper.
I keep telling myself that could never be me. I’ve always been a firm believer in working in silence and letting your results do the talking but it’s taken a lot for me to admit that when I’m in silence, all I do is write stuff that’ll never be produced or published or read. A lot of the time, I’ll write something and think God I could never actually publish this. It’s too sad or dark or vulnerable or shitty or I swear way too fucking much in this one. And then I draft it and never read it again. It feels like girls are supposed to have the perfect self-care routine, be pretty without make up but also know how to put it on like an expert, promote products or workouts or careers until you’re positive that everyone knows how freaking happy you are.
Maybe I’m wrong but I think it’s dangerous to exclusively publicize what’s going perfectly in your life. If you read my blog frequently, you’d know that I write about death all the time. I talk about getting hurt all the time. Come to think about it, you probably think my life kind of sucks a little bit. But at least you don’t read my writing and feel that sick pit of jealousy. At least you don’t feel like you want to be me. That is never my intention when I write. My intention is to make you feel something. Whether that something is sad or heard or amused or like you can relate… something productive. Because I know firsthand that wishing you were somebody else is a slippery slope into a self-loathing that isn’t the fun, quirky kind.
Here’s a few other things I know for sure: Being unwanted feels like garbage. Being rejected makes you question what the hell is so wrong with you. Touching the face of a person you love after they’ve died feels like someone has stabbed you in the throat and twisted the knife. Being physically violated makes your body feel like it’s been displayed at a yard sale and nobody wants it – not even for free. Sometimes I have a bad week and the stress zit that develops on my chin is the tipping point into making me think I need to throw the whole face away and start over. Being sad makes you feel like a human being – but not the kind of human who’s lying down in Mykonos getting a tan and drinking a beer that never makes you fat, the kind of human who is lying in bed for six hours telling everyone you don’t have the energy.
To bring this full circle, I am lucky to have people in my life who lift me up after being sad. I’m lucky to have a boss who cares about my mental health and I’m writing this knowing that some of you aren’t as lucky. Life can seriously suck ass and I’m sorry that my blog can be so depressing but if I have to be the voice who reminds everyone that it’s fine your life isn’t perfect, then I will be. It’s okay that you’re feeling sad; nothing is wrong with you. The knife in your throat will give you relief eventually. Someone will pull your body down from that yard sale and you will feel valuable again. The stress zit goes away with time. And Mykonos doesn’t even look that cool. (Unless someone wants to bring me there then yeah it looks cool).