more to come

For years, I’ve spent money on a website I don’t attend to. Too stubborn to lose hope in the idea that one day, I would be consistent. Write blogs daily..at the very least, weekly. My intention, always, to reach even just one person who needs to feel less alone.

But my own fears keep me away. Fears of being vulnerable, fears that I’ve “let writing go,” fears that I’m baring my soul without it meaning a thing.

I turned 34 last week. The first birthday I spent alone, in a new(ish) city. Sure-there’s been many recent birthdays where the only companions were my parents, but at least I had them. Or a dog or two to help lick the icing off the candles.

I don’t say this to evoke pity. Quite the contrary-I loathe pity. Rather, I say it to validate that even though I had no plans, no birthday dinner, no friends to light candles on a cake I never had, I still felt ok. And for me, that is something.

I’ve spent so much of my life–at least, recent years–wallowing in self-pity. Feeling angry at the wreckage I caused in my addiction, ashamed of the years I felt I’d wasted. Feeling like I’m “less than”–holding myself up to the standards I’d set of how life should go.

With social media, it can be hard to not compare yourself. I see high school friends, college friends, grad-school friends traveling the world. Getting engaged, having babies. Surrounded by friends. Going on bachelorette trips, reuniting with old friends in new hometowns, guzzling champagne with scenic backgrounds, eyebrows meticulously plucked/shaped/whatever-the-hell-it-is-they-do.

I guess if I’m being honest, a part of me saw myself having these same experiences. I saw myself in friends’ weddings, catching bouquets, eyeing the cute groomsmen. I saw myself at after-work functions, a glass (always) in my hand, the image that validated you had made it. The eyebrows that said you can afford it. 

But I’m seeing myself differently these days. I’m seeing myself as a little girl again, curious about the world. Unashamed of wanting to go to bed early. Unashamed of crying because something hurts. Unashamed of finding the answers to all my questions in books, in words, in the way the lyrics to a song are my prayers.

I know now that the pictures we post don’t tell the whole story. Images only convey the moment in time.

I’m more privy to the words.

The ways words can simplify, yet amplify, the feelings we feel as humans. The emotions we go through as we grow. The things we think we know, but are still learning.

I made a vow to myself, to the little girl inside of me who always loved to write, that I will write a book. I will tell the stories of my life that want to be told. If no one listens, that is ok. But if some body, just one person, chooses to read my experiences and gains just one ounce of relief knowing they are not alone–then I will know my intuition to write, that thing inside of me I cannot push down, will finally be at peace.

Stay tuned. More, as always, to come.