Ever since I started posting my writing online, the most common comments and messages I get from people have something to do with how “brave” I am for sharing so much with the world in regards to my personal feelings, mental health struggles, etc. They tell me that they wish they could be more like me and open up and talk more about their issues. They thank me for being so open because it really helps them to know that they’re not alone because now they know that I’ve been through some of the same stuff. It’s a really cool experience, too. I’ve never had anyone be envious of me or respect me for anything I’ve ever done. Most of the time I’m the prime example of what you don’t want to do when it comes to making decisions. Either way, it’s really flattering and makes me feel somewhat better about all the shit I go through.
But I’m not brave.
I don’t struggle to talk about this stuff. I don’t sit at my laptop and think, “Okay, this is going to be really hard but you know, this is going to help someone out there and that’s worth it to me.”
I mean, sure, it’s great knowing I’m helping someone maybe, but I’d be lying if I told you this was some brave deed I’m doing.
In all honesty, I don’t know how to not talk about this shit. My depression, anxiety, panic attacks, self image, self harm, anger issues, etc. I don’t know how to not talk about it because literally it’s all I’ve known my entire life.
I’ve never been able to hide my emotions. Ever. You can always tell when I’m upset even when I was a kid.
Do you remember class pictures in elementary school? Not the individual pictures, but the ones where they made you stand outside in the freezing cold with your entire class? In my third grade yearbook, if you look at my class picture, you’ll see a group of happy third graders grinning at the camera. But if you look closely, you’ll see some sort of black glob sulking on top of the bleachers. Yes, my friends. That little black glob is yours truly. I’m wearing the same black sweatshirt I wore every single day for a year straight (a teacher made a comment to either my mom or the principal, I can’t remember, that I wore black too much for such a small little girl….BYE) and my hood is pulled up over my head and my hair is completely in my face. I looked like the girl from the Grudge movies. And I’m, what? Nine years old? There are other photos of me sitting with other kids and they’re all smiling and my face is completely blank. I look fucking miserable, and the truth is that I was. I don’t remember why specifically, but I do know that I wasn’t always unhappy. I smiled in photographs when I felt like it. But I’m assuming that when these photos were taken I was in a bad fucking mood and wasn’t interested in smiling for someone else’s benefit. Along with being extremely moody and emotional, I’m also extremely stubborn.
If I had my yearbooks with me, I would show you these pictures because they’re actually really fucking funny if you get past the fact that I’m actually a severely depressed nine year old. I’ll find them one day and share them, I promise.
I used to cry in class a lot. I would sit at my desk in elementary school and just put my head down and just cry. I don’t remember why I would do it, but I did it and I did it often. I just couldn’t hold stuff in. I’m an emotional person and when I have to cry, I have to cry. So I would sit and cry and sometimes I would feel a tap on my shoulder of someone asking me what was wrong and why I was crying. I would whip my head up and yell “LEAVE ME ALONE” and put my head back down and continue to cry even harder.
You’re probably also thinking,
“People did try to help you. You can’t be mad that no one was there for you if you yelled every time someone tried to help.”
And to that I say, LEAVE ME ALONE.
Jesus, Marki. You were a little shit. Psychoooooo.
I was. I was a terrible child, emotionally speaking. I didn’t get into trouble or fights or anything because I’m pretty sure all of the other kids were afraid of me. Not because I was big or bad, but because I was obviously a very troubled child and no one wanted to test me.
I’ve been wearing my heart on my sleeve ever since I was a tot. I’m not brave. I’m fucked. It’s all I know. As the years have gone by, I’ve gained more information and perspective so I can not only share my thoughts and feelings, but do so in an intelligent manner rather than just bitching and moaning about how miserable I am which honestly is what I would do up until about a year or two ago.
I’ve been posting about my personal issues on the internet ever since I got a laptop. From Myspace (GOD I MISS MYSPACE) to Tumblr, Twitter and Facebook, I’ve been over sharing my life since the get go. And I always love when people post things like
“This isn’t your diary. No one cares.”
It makes me a little envious of those people. I imagine those people have always had someone there for them. Someone to listen and talk to and make them feel a little less lonely. They’ve probably never felt so desperate for understanding and compassion that they resort to spilling their guts to strangers in hopes that someone might actually give enough of a shit to say something to them.
In reality, those people are probably in denial of their own shit and can’t properly express proper emotion. Or maybe they’re unable to comprehend the basic human desire to be understood. Or maybe they’re just private people and don’t understand why other people can’t be the same as them. I don’t know. But I think it’s shitty when people attack other people for sharing how they feel, regardless of personal preference.
I just know how it feels to feel desperate and the only outlet you have is your keyboard.
Also, it’s so much easier to talk about this stuff online rather than in person because you’re able to sit in your underwear, drink orange juice straight from the jug and sing Hillary Duff songs without anyone knowing. The internet is truly amazing.
Nowadays, people are a whole lot more understanding about depression, anxiety, and mental health. But this is honestly still a difficult subject that not everyone is comfortable talking about, which is completely understandable. Not everyone wants everyone all up in their business. I can respect a subtle psycho. I envy them, sometimes.
But all this jazz still has such a stigma and it’s still hard for people to talk about, but it’s SO much more accepted and understood these days than when I was younger. The conversations are definitely flowing a lot more which I think is great.
I also know people that literally can’t talk about certain stuff. Not even just the sad stuff, but I’m pretty open about most of the shit in my life. My drinking, partying, hookups and what not. I’ve pretty much laid it all out on the table. There’s no going back.
And a lot of people wish they could do it, but you know, they care about their families and their futures and potential relationships. But for me, I don’t really see the point in hiding that stuff. I don’t care anymore. I don’t care who knows if I slept with some dude that later ended up peeing in my clothes hamper. I don’t care. Because I’m okay with the choices I make and if by sharing that story makes someone
A) Laugh and feel genuinely happy for at least a moment
B) Prevents someoe from sleeping with a guy that pees in their clothes hamper
then I feel good about sharing it.
I’ve been doing this for a long time now. Everyone already knows that I’m a heaping bag of emotion. I am 21 years old and for the rest of my life, with any new friendship or relationship, I’m going to have to explain my past in some way or another because someone has read something I posted when I was a kid or they notice one of my scars on my arm. Either way, I’ve already done the damage so why not try and make the best out of it?
I’m not telling everyone that in order to be sincere and emotionally stable you have to share every detail of your life. Jesus, that’s not what I’m saying. Because if everyone did that, I wouldn’t feel as special and no one would even give a shit about anything I have to say!
Words are so incredibly powerful. They have the ability to literally change the way you look at the world. At your friends and family. At yourself. And to belittle someone for expressing how they feel, even if it seems a little excessive, is just wrong.
Because one of these days you’re going to regret not listening to the girl that said too much.
Let me know if you need me.