Okay, I’m gonna talk about this again. I know I’ve talked about ‘it’ before. And lately, all my posts have been pretty much about the same thing.
I was thirteen when it started. Depression. Not that I had anything to be depressed about, at least that’s what people said. I mean, I honestly didn’t. I had great parents, a great home, yada yada yada. I’m not blaming anyone, but the strictest parents do make the best liars, and as I grew up, I learned to effortlessly lie about the one thing I should have been honest about, and I kept saying, “I’m all right.”
I shouldn’t have.
I should have talked to someone. Anyone. But then, my parents never asked me, “Are you okay? Can we talk? Is there anything wrong? How can I help?”
We don’t do that in my family. What we do is dismiss problems and call them pretend first world problems. That’s what we do. We also laugh at insecurities, air dirty linen in public, and end things in punches. Because there’s nothing a good beating won’t cure. Yes, even today.
So basically, this killed most of my mojo.
I can’t love without wondering why the person I’m dating would ever want someone like me. Because I’ve been made to feel less than even remotely amazing, all my life, and this – I’m sorry to add – has stuck. I can’t shake it off. Usually when I’m just ignoring what I’m going though, I sail through the day, and nothing bothers me. Usually, I fight it. But a few of the times when it does win, it wins by a wide margin.
And I come undone.
I’ve been to countless therapists. I’ve tried meditation. I’ve begged my Mum to hold me, when I cried, she never did. I’m an old bat, and I should handle myself. That’s what she said. It’s kind of unfair that everyone blames me and says I’m heartless, when they should be blaming my family instead. We do things the twisted way. There’s nothing uncomplicated about me, or us, and there never will be.
And I will keep pretending everything is just peachy, and go back to ranting about crap, trying to make other people laugh.
I’m golden. I’m golden.