Where have the last six months gone?
It seems like only yesterday that we were celebrating Christmas and New Year, and now here we are halfway through 2014 already. It might just be me, but it seems as if the year has flown by. I guess when I take into account all of the changes that have happened in my life these past six months that time seems to have gone by quicker than it actually has.
In four and a half months from now I will turn another year older – usually a thought that deeply depresses me. Another year has slipped through my fingers and what have I accomplished?
You’ll probably know by now that the last six months have seen significant steps forward in both my writing and my life in general which has allowed me to see the glass half full instead of half empty all the time. When my birthday rolls around this year I’ll be able to look back on what I’ve done and actually feel as if I have achieved something meaningful. Moving out on my own, going for promotions at work, throwing my hat in the ring for every writing opportunity that comes my way – all of these things I’ve successfully done is no mean feat considering the nagging negative voices of my past that have threatened to pull me back at every available opportunity.
Therapists, past and present, have long nagged me to ‘love’ myself more. As is my nature, I used to make a lewd joke about masturbation every time the subject was raised (my therapists all knew that this was my way of making light of what I considered an uncomfortable topic). When you’re raised in an environment where there isn’t much love it makes it hard for me as an adult to love myself. If the people around me didn’t love me, how was I ever supposed to know how to love myself?
Due to circumstances beyond my control, I’ve found myself starting again with new therapists three times in the last twelve months and each time I’ve had to open up old wounds, spill my guts, and give voice to the horrible memories that I’d rather stay silent and hidden.
Each therapist has asked me what I do to help myself relax, the kinds of things I would do if I had a little ‘me’ time. Sad as it sounds, the only real hobby I could think of was writing. Seeing the correlation between my inability to express and come to terms with my own pain and my love of writing, each of them have pushed me to give voice to my emotions through the written word. It’s been painful at times, so painful that I’ve wanted to run and hide from the issues that I should be confronting head on.
So to every therapist who has ever pulled their hair out or kicked my ass during those sessions when I stubbornly refused to accept that my past had damaged me in so many ways, here I am taking your advice. I’m loving myself by owning my own story, showing everyone the real me and not apologizing for who I am or where I come from.
This is my story, read it if you wish or click to another page, but this is who I am and I will no longer apologize for myself, what I do or where I go.
This is me, my life, my story.