I started blogging because of an urge to write, which is weird because I used to avoid writing--writing meant I had to look within myself, and it was that I avoided at all costs.
Blogging has turned out to be more than sharing my journey, it has turned into a self-revelation, and it hasn't been easy.
As a child I learned that I shouldn't share what my life entailed, and as I grew I learned that I shouldn't share my thoughts either. I became good at being someone that I thought I should be, someone like everyone else. I did what I could to push the real me to the smallest corner of my mind.
Writing has brought the real me to these pages, and it hasn't been easy.
I'm still not sure of who I am. Somehow the real me and the me that I created, have gotten mixed up. I'm closer to untangling the two, but I panic sometimes. Blogging has made me panic, at times, because I'm not used to sharing myself. Now, I realize that I don't have to blog -I could write in a journal-, but there's something I get from being here that I don't get from writing in a journal, so I continue on.
I have worried about what people think of me here, but recently I've begun to think it's more about me worrying that I'm not okay in the head. Does that make sense? This isn't easy to explain.
I worry that I'm too different, that I'm beyond...help.
When I was eleven, my mom took me to a psychologist (or someone of the like, I can't remember her title). It was a non-profit business. She asked me a lot of questions, and I mostly lied about them--I'm sure she knew that. Then my dad was mentioned, I broke down and started crying. I don't remember what she asked or what was said about him, I just remember crying and trying my hardest to keep it in. Not many people talked to me about my dad. Later, I asked my mom if I had to go back, she told me that they wouldn't see me again, that they couldn't help me. I remember those exact words, "They can't help you." Maybe it was because it was a non-profit and they didn't have the space for someone that wasn't going to be honest, maybe it was because they knew I didn't want to be helped (you can't help someone that doesn't want it), it could have been a lot of things, but hearing my mom say that, confirmed what I already thought--I couldn't be helped, I was beyond it.
Anyway, it's times like that, that taught me to hide who I am. So it's not so much that I care about what you think, but what I think about myself. And seeing myself on these pages...I don't know...some of it I like, and some of it I don't.
It's good for me to be here, but it isn't easy.