Where have I been? What have I been doing? Do I even write anymore?
Physically, here, mentally, everywhere. Everything, and nothing. And yes, just not like I used to in style or frequency which upsets me. But, here I am.
I'm writing today because, after spending time alone in the quiet before a beautiful Texas thunderstorm I asked myself two questions I'd never asked myself before. Are you happy? Do you like who you've become this past year?
Happiness, for me at least, is so complicated. Anyone who meets me for extended periods of time always tell me that there's an underlying sadness in me. Even when I smile, even when I laugh, even if I'm just staring off into space, sadness is there, like an aura or an unidentified ingredient in the mystery that is me. I've come to accept that. I've realized that about myself for a long time, and instead of attempting to change it, I've grown to embrace it. I don't embrace it in that hipster "we're all sad and damaged here" kind of way, but more in the "this is who you've always been, don't fight who you are" sort of way. It makes things beautiful, y'know? (If not, I'll explain later...in another blog because...whooo)
So, how do I answer that question? As someone who's default setting is just a shade past "okay" into the "melancholy" palate, can I ever be happy? The truth is, I don't know. Do I feel better? Hell yes. Between my vast hiatuses with writing this blog, posting on Twitter or doing anything really, I'd been going to therapy to try and heal the fissures in my spirit. I was broken, and what was worse, I was pretending that I wasn't, trying my damnest to keep all the pieces from falling apart by taping and gluing what pieces of me I could scramble together back to the core of me. It didn't work. I fell apart.
For a long time I was ashamed. I'm 23! What the hell do I have to be so sad about? What gives me the right to fall apart? People need me! I've got bills! I've got shit to do! After months with a really great therapist, I've been able to put everything in perspective, manage my stress, and accept the sadness. Accept not only the sadness, but that I can never be perfect. I can never be all together. I can never be everything to everybody. And that's okay; I can be there for me, make sure that I'm good and then help others. I can be happy with me, and content with my life.
So, if happiness is contentment, if happiness is peace of spirit and a connected soul, then yeah, I'm happy.
Liking myself is so weird. Not because I've never done it before (which, I'll admit, is kind of true) but because it seems like a no-brainer now. I'm likable as hell. I've been saying the words, and reading off the personality traits for so long -sweet, kind, smart, funny- that they don't mean anything anymore; they are still true, but they don't resonate. I'm restless and hopeless and full of fear, and I'm still and hopeful and brave. I'm a contradiction; I didn't believe that I could be a grey thing - it could only be black or white. But I, just like everything else, am all grey. And grey can be beautiful and fun and lovable. And so, I've found, am I.
I plan to write more. It's hard for me, because I feel like, with meds (I'll explain later) and job applications (I'll explain that too) and trying to make new friends that I'm just not the same writer. Do I sound the same? In any case...