When I started blogging, I wanted my online persona to be me, but different. It was my chance to start fresh. My chance to not be known as Sandra, the depressed chick. No one would have any preconceived notions about me. I was a stranger. Maybe I could finally separate myself from that identity (the ‘depressed chick’ one). Maybe I could stop that constant feeling of others pitying me or looking down on me because I’m not conventionally ‘happy‘.
I wanted to write about… whatever. I wanted to vent about some stuff (and people), to make people laugh, to talk about my writing, to share some of it… you get the idea. It started out well enough. When I look back at my first few posts, I actually seem… okay. [I won’t say ‘normal’ because who the hell knows what ‘normal’ is?]
I never wanted to let on just how much of a disaster I truly am.
But soon enough, I slipped into my pathetic, needy, anxiety-ridden, insecure self. Soon enough, I was sharing way too much about my feelings. Soon enough, I couldn’t hide my reality. And soon enough, I felt like that’s all my blog was—exactly what I didn’t want it to be.
Now I feel apprehensive about sharing so much so often about my personal struggles. Once I’ve shared those things—those feelings—those thoughts, I feel that it changes people’s opinions of me. Like, in a bad way.
Maybe this led to my disappearance (or my infrequent appearances). But it wasn’t a conscious decision. I never planned to disappear. It just seemed like I became my depression/anxiety. It overwhelmed me… consumed me. It took over my whole life. I thought, ‘this is all I am.‘ And I hated that. I hated me.
Disappearing didn’t take those thoughts or feelings away, though. They are still with me. Sure, I am a mom, daughter, sister, wife… but deep down, I feel like all I am is fucked up. That defines me. Only that. I still hate it. I still hate me.
What do I do? Do I try to go back to the start? Do I stop posting about my emotions and shit? Honestly, I don’t know if I can. Apparently, it’s who I am. It seems it’s all I am. [Horrible thought: I don’t have much else to share.] Besides, you already know how fucked up I am. Not talking about it isn’t going to stop you knowing it. The cat is out of the bag. And, man, he bolted. He just ran and ran. I can’t put him back in. Besides, he was suffering. He couldn’t breathe. He needed to be let out. [This concludes my cat metaphor.]
I think what happened here is that this blog turned into some kind of ‘therapy‘ for me. Mostly the spill-my-guts kind. [And for the record, at this point in my life, I hate even the word ‘therapy’. I’ve been through it… talk therapy, CBT, whatever. Tried. No help. Done.] Maybe that’s what I needed this blog to be even though it was never what I wanted it to be. I felt like that was all wrong. Again, maybe that’s why I unintentionally disappeared.
I just don’t like who I am when my [god-awful] emotions consume me. I get overwhelmed and overcome to the point where I cannot think, talk, or write about anything else. And though I hate to admit it, I’ve been especially overwhelmed and overcome for a very long time. A couple of years, at least. I’ve had trouble focusing on anything else. It’s a horrible way to live. I don’t recommend it.
Yet… in my head, I’m already thinking about posting about how I’ve been doing during these many months I’ve been absent. But I think and rethink and overthink and second guess myself and… here we are.
Being me is a real pain in the ass.
p.s. — By the way, the irony of this whole post is not lost on me. On and on I go about my anxieties about posting about my anxieties while posting about my anxieties.
©2020 what sandra thinks
Not actually me.
