“A bit eek”

When my brother saw my blog, he messaged me immediately to tell me that it was wonderful – but that it was uncomfortably raw and “a bit eek”. Although I understand his concerns, I explained that it’s much bigger than that. 

I don’t believe it’s always necessary, or even helpful, for everyone struggling with their mental health to comb through their trauma in the way I do. And I don’t think that placing myself directly in the firing line, stomping around and taunting the opposition the way I do is a particularly smart, respectable or responsible decision.  

But, seeing someone confidently lay out every part of themselves without fear is everything I needed and never had as a child, teenager and young adult.  

What other people thought of me used to be everything. I was able to be cool, charismatic, attractive, desired, and liked. I was scared to drop these personas, should it lead to criticism from friends or acquaintances who I didn’t even think were particularly good people. Doing that for 30 years landed me absolutely nowhere and with no one. I’m not worried about criticism anymore.  

The things that happen to me aren’t “me”. Nor are my thoughts, emotions, behaviours, words or habits. I am something that can’t be seen. I am the values I find within myself and the way I choose to respect and cherish them every day. Nothing else has anything to do with me.  

In the second wave of social media madness – after the perfection era transformed into the “Instagram vs reality” era, I was constantly inundated with what I experienced as a sense of false vulnerability. Sure, seeing a video of someone’s house a little bit messy, and Instagram models with beautiful bodies humbly showing their collection of three perfectly tanned ¼ inch belly rolls helped a little, but it didn’t do a lot.  

There’s always been inspirational quotes and beautiful poems too, and there’s always been those friends of ours who plaster every thought and feeling they have all-over every platform (we all have one, and we’ve all pondered having them sectioned).  

None of this ever helped me. Although the nonsensical scatterings of my more emotionally colourful friends were completely valid, and I related to the feelings they’d have, it was hard to follow, difficult to apply to myself, and left no room for a person to reach out and listen. It was also almost always entirely negative. The thoughts people have when they’re completely submerged in their emotions aren’t whole or complete, they are the initial painful reaction to the opening of a wound without any stepping back, reflecting, understanding of causation or accountability. Therefore, no glimmer of hope will be found in those words. As a young lady with absolutely no hope whatsoever, this relatability was just harmful. 

The beautiful poems and quotes, although written from the deepest part of someone’s soul and dripping with meaning and vulnerability – were too perfectly articulated and polished to be able to relate to. They felt like a part of the “fine art” community – another place I didn’t belong. I felt as though they were written by someone who had really been through the wringer – but had dressed up their thoughts so much that they were no longer tangible.  

I’m trying to be somewhere in the middle. 

I keep my wild, incessant ramblings in my diary, where they belong, and I keep my pretty poems on my Instagram feed – perfectly crafted by someone who makes money out of people’s sense of self-worth.  

This is my attempt at real vulnerability. After the raw emotions, during the understanding and reflections, and before the beautifying. Kind of like how you wouldn’t be particularly interested in seeing your best mate all dressed up in expensive clothes and jewellery, but you wouldn’t particularly want to see them naked either. 

Real vulnerability is strength. And strength is something I have an abundance of right now. I have more than enough to share with people who can’t find any. I’m willing to put everything I have out there at the risk of no one taking me seriously, in the hope that I reach one person who feels the way I felt when I was alone and weak.  

Making one person feel validated and heard is worth everything to me. Making a million people feel uncomfortable with the way I live my own life, in my own skin, means nothing. 

Yes, maybe I did originally decide on only following a select few friends who know me well, and yes, maybe I did accidentally connect my phone number to my Instagram account, meaning that there’s a high chance that all my son’s friends mum’s, my boss, and everyone on my university course can see it.  

Yes, there is a chance that everyone at work, on the school run and in my class are laughing behind my back and talking about how I pee in the shower and pick my nose when the bogeys are too far up for blowing. That’s fine. It might’ve taken a couple of days’ worth of kicking myself, but I’m over it. This is who I am, and if you don’t understand what I’m doing and think I’m a giant freak, I will happily be a giant freak. 

I want to start trying to bridge the gap between the two absolutes that almost helped me; the people who weren’t honest enough, and the people with no faith in humanity. I can start that by telling anyone reading that I have had an absolutely, subjectively – maybe objectively – shit life. But even though I am exactly the same person, with the same experiences, the same trauma and betrayals, the same struggles and the same box emotions, it is possible to find hope, before it’s too late.  

Before you find love, money, success, a family, a new car, a best friend, or anything else you think you need before you can be happy – you can find happiness first. I know because I have done it. 

Right now, I would say I’m fighting through another one of my many “rock bottoms”. It’s not as low as I’ve been in some ways, but lower in other ways. 

The breakdown of my 6-year relationship with a man I am still very deeply in love with, as well as leaving a gaping hole in my heart which may never be filled, also wreaked financial havoc in my life. I am stuck in an exhausting minimum wage full-time job in which I’m not valued. I am living hand to mouth to keep a roof over my child’s head and food on his plate. I’ve asked all my loan companies to leave me alone for 6 months because I am in too much debt and have more outgoings than income. I am a full-time single mother to a child with additional needs and a full-time university student. I have one friend in the entire city I live in, no family or support network, and I’ve just been diagnosed with BPD.  

The difference is that this time, I’m okay. I am finding things hard, but I am so grateful for what I do have. I have bags and bags of hope for the future, and I truly believe in myself.  

My son is everything to me, and my time with him is so unbelievably precious. I have food, a home to keep my things, an education, a job, a therapist, access to medication, a friend, my physical health, and above all, control of my own mind.

As far as I’m concerned, I have more than enough.