Well it’s been awhile of bunkering down and it sure is getting old. I know everyone has probably been saying this, but for awhile I was reasonably content with pandemic status, finding it suited my introverted HSP self quite well. No longer did I have to drag myself to events that I was over-stimulated by, I could pop up on Zoom, or even not pop up on Zoom, and horizontally stay on my couch and listen in. It was fine, I guess. Nevermind that I wasn’t having a lot of fun. But at least I got to sleep, which was nice, being pregnant and all. But here we are.
I have to admit I’m embarrassed to write, because in this day and age it will probably expose how “privileged” and in the dark I am about things. It will probably make people dislike me. And I’m not lacking in the people-pleasing department. But I really, really, need to write for my stress levels, I think.
I feel like I need to get everything up to speed on the Net. Because it’s been so very hard to be open. But will I regret not being open? Will I regret being open?
I want to tell stories. But I also have a baby in a carrier right now sleeping on me, so the story will probably get cut short.
Who is this letter to? To my former self, maybe. To the girl that used to write. I remember when I would tell people the happiest time of my life was high school. Not because I was actually happy, but because I felt like I belonged. And maybe it’s the enneagram 9 or whatever, but having not felt like I belonged in elementary school, finally feeling like I did in junior high and high school was gold. Nevermind that there were many days where I would listen to my ipod to sleep at night, playing sad songs about tears and crying on a divine shoulder. But it was like a warm blanket every time.
Then I went to college. And I wanted to leave that me behind. The melancholy me. The one whose idea of a good time was to blast all the sad Backstreet Boys tunes in my best friend’s BMW and sing at the top of our lungs. And then go to Jamba Juice. And peruse the psychology section of Borders, when it still existed. Particularly so we could diagnose ourselves and our tangled relationships with the opposites.
So I did. I determined to live among sisters and pursue with all of the strength I had. Even though I felt this odd sadness every time I would return to the house. Or was it anxiety? I didn’t know. Even though my friends would make fun of me for having a curfew. And I don’t regret living like that, but I didn’t know all that activity didn’t make me altogether different inside. I thought I had left the old me behind. I got a new backpack for college. Chartreuse. A bright, bold, and most importantly, happy, color. It represented everything I wanted college to be. Optimistic, hopeful, clean, perfect.
I didn’t know I was about to learn a lesson in people pleasing. I’m not sure how it happened. All I know is before I knew it, I was in a conundrum and burying my head in my bed in the afternoons, asking God what in the world was I going to do? Why did it happen that way? Was I looking for love and belonging? I suspect the sensitive me, the me that didn’t really fit into the place I was in, wanted an out. And this was an out. An attachment to what used to be.
