So, I got a new day planner a couple of weeks ago. It was an idea for how to start writing down things that happen in my life and in my brain, as well as writing down the things that are causing me stress and anxiety, so I can maybe start to see a pattern and squash it like a bug. I’ll let you know how that goes. But it’s a gorgeous planner and I’m a little bit smitten with it and I bring it with me everywhere. Maybe that’s a good sign.
Each month has a tab. Ah, swoon. On that monthly tab page, it looks like this:
Some are cutesy. Some are motivational. I’ve decided to use these as a theme for the month ahead, interpreting everything I do into some form of symbolism because that’s how I am. November is “Tell is like it is” month. I’ve a bad habit of bottling things up and letting them eat away at me until I crash and burn. This month, I am going to work at conquering my fear of saying what I really feel when it comes to something I feel is important. I have spent years being told (and believing) that my thoughts and feelings don’t matter. All you’re worth is that you can do for other people to make their lives easier. I know that it’s that ugly cloud of depression and insecurity that makes me think this way, but some habits are fucking hard to break. But this month is a month of quitting. Quitting keeping things held back and bottled up. I have to shatter this mindset that talking about my feelings makes the people who love and care about me uncomfortable or inconvenienced. If something bothers me, I need to find a way to talk about it, or else it will destroy me. And I don’t want to be destroyed by something that. I want to be destroyed by an asteroid or something like that.
I don’t take care of myself very well. I am realising that more and more lately, and I am struggling to think of a reason why I shouldn’t treat myself with the same respect, dignity and love that I treat everyone I care about. I’m discovering that depression and anxiety have plagued me my whole life, it was just undiagnosed and unrecognised because I hid it so well. I hated myself when I was younger. I wanted to be thinner, funnier, prettier, smarter, more perfect, but I could never get there. Of course, hindsight is 20/20 and I know now that I was full of shit. I was plenty back then and I’m plenty now.
I still struggle with knowing I’m enough, let alone plenty. Since I lost my mother, I have felt lost, without my biggest fan, my other half. I have struggled to feel whole. I have the most wonderful partner in the whole world, loving friends and a sweet and close family that drives me insane, but even all those blessings, and I feel… incomplete. I’ve felt that way for a long time, and I am struggling to find those missing pieces.
So bear with me friends… I’m about to get very open and very honest.