eww...~feelings~

Since I can remember, I have always loved to write. English was always my favorite class, we would get to read, discuss writing, and also write about anything we wanted (well… in reason). It was the only class in school I actually enjoyed. I remember growing up writing plays in my backyard, which I would of course force my siblings to act in. If anything was wrong, or my ~vision~ was not coming to life, I would yell at them, if not cry and storm to my room, sit and sulk, before making them start all over again (and guys, for that I’m sorry, but maybe next time be better actors HA). I would write pages and pages in a pink diary, venting about my woes, my pretend heartbreaks, every time my ~mean~ older brother excluded me from hanging with him and his cute older friends. I wrote stories, that I would read to my grandfather while we sat on a hammock under the sun. Writing was a huge part of my life, and as I got older that only became more prevalent. It became an escape from the inevitable agony of growing up. Everyone goes through pain and sorrow, and for me writing was a way to soothe it all. Even now I write as a form of therapy, and healing, a place where I can put all my thoughts, my sadness, my heartbreak into words, rather than scrambled letters in my brain. That being said, it doesn’t always do the trick. I will write short stories off of this ~blog~ that I don’t show to anyone, fictional stories, with characters, and names that are not my own, or people in my life, and it helps. Then I come here and write about love, and sex, and boys, and more of the day to day stuff going on in my head. I will write poetry when my heart is really hurting, and tears are ready to fall down my cheeks. Then I write letters that I will never send to people I wish loved me. All of this helps, for some people, its music, or sports, or art, but for me its words, it’s writing, and I love it so much. But sometimes, it’s not enough, and I realized that more recently. I was trying to write about a really painful experience I had this year, something that I don’t think I am necessarily ready to talk about let alone write for myself or even think about sharing with the world (lol my like 5 loyal fans). But as I tried to write, to bring what happened into words, I couldn’t. I couldn’t talk to people in my life, I couldn’t write for myself, I just sat there (literally and figuratively), staring at a blank piece of paper. I would stay in bed on days when the sun was finally out, avoid responsibilities, bail  on plans, sleep all day and into the night. I was hurting, and the one thing that usually makes me feel better, seemed to be lost behind all of the pain and noise that was circling my thoughts. I reluctantly decided to go to therapy. When I say reluctantly, I mean reluctantly. It took me months and months to finally schedule an appointment. Picking up the phone and calling was an accomplishment in itself. I am not one to share a lot of personal things about myself to that many people, especially in person. Sure I can write whatever I want behind this screen, and not face any of you people reading it. You judge me? I don’t care. You hate what I have to say? Cool. Doesn’t affect me. But if it’s in person I see your reactions, I hear your words, I can’t hide from a face to face interaction. So I was unwilling at first. Also admitting sadness, admitting pain, admitting normal human emotions is hard for us (me). I have spoken about this before, but people would rather you lie and say “oh I am just great” than be honest if you are hurting. I am trying really hard to be more honest about my feelings, but it’s still a work in progress. I still will get upset at someone and have to remind myself to tell them so it doesn’t just fester and cause resentment. So I started going to therapy, and my god is it the best decision I have ever made. Don’t get me wrong, it is hard as hell. It is hard to feel comfortable with a stranger, hard to then open up, hard to talk about the distress and suffering you clearly don’t want to talk about. But it is so worth it. Even just going, walking into the building and knowing that I am putting in actual effort to make myself feel better, well, made me ~feel better~. This isn’t me saying that everyone should go to therapy, because that’s not true. It definitely doesn’t work for everyone, I mean I don’t even really know if it works for me. But I guess what I am saying is the only person who can really truly make you happy, and fix the issues that are in your life, is yourself. I don’t want to sit around and be sad, and not do anything about it. I don’t enjoy being sad, I don’t enjoy being stuck in a purgatory of anger and pain because of something that happened that I am just not dealing with. I want to be happy, and the only way for me to do that is to fix myself. Of course this took time, but for me, I chose therapy. My therapist, is a goddamn angel I might add. Again, therapy is not the answer for everyone, but if you don’t actively try to get better, actively try to fix what is going on in your heads and hearts, nothing will ever change.

I know I have said this all before, but I’m at work, my boss isn’t in, I drank two cups of coffee and cannot stop writing, so let me reiterate. I hate admitting when I am sad, admitting that some days I wake up and want to stay in bed all day, crying under mountains of blankets, but some days that's just where I’m at. I don’t like people to know when I am hurting or why I am hurting. I don’t like the thought of breaking down in front of someone else, but alas, I am human and it happens. I wish it wasn’t seen as weak or pathetic to not be okay all the time, because it is quite impossible to be ~okay~ all the time. Some days I am so incredibly happy, thankful for the people around me, and for the life I have, and other days I am the exact opposite. No ones lives are perfect, whether it may look that way on the outside or not. On instagram, everyone seems to be living the damn dream. I mean even on mine I look perfectly happy, perfectly content, but that's not real life. In real life, a lot of the time I am sad, or upset, I am missing a boy but won’t admit it, or my heart is longing for my father who isn’t always there (daddy issues AM I RIGHT?). I though, am the only one who can change these things. I can’t change the people around me, the pain they may have caused or will cause, but I can change the way I handle things. I can be happy if I put in the effort and make changes for myself, and that's really all I can do. I can’t control who hurts me, or makes me sad, but I can control myself and hopefully learn to deal with things rather than let them sit and eat away at every inch of me. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to write that story, the one about this year? Maybe I won’t. But that's okay. At least I can hopefully talk about it in therapy baby YAS. I just hope that one day I won’t ever feel weak for going to therapy, or for feeling sad sometimes. Seriously, go to therapy, cry your eyes out, be overly happy, be emotional, tell that dumb boy who barely responds to you that you fucking like him, ~feel~ things. For the longest time I didn’t even think I deserved love, I didn’t think anyone would love me, and that's because I didn’t love myself. The first thing, and only thing I can do to change my outcome in life, is learn to love myself, learn to be happy, and learn ways to cope with the inescapable pain, heartbreak, and sadness that life brings. By the words of the great and talented Rupaul "If you can't love yourself how in the hell are you gonna love somebody else?". The only way to do this though, is to feel, is to work on it, and not pretend that the hurting doesn’t exist. Love yourself enough to be okay with being down, and be okay with taking actions to bring yourself back up. We are human beings and we are lucky enough to have actual emotions, and I’d rather feel all of these things, including the sadness, including the hurt, then to feel nothing at all.