I haven’t written since May and I’ve had no desire to do so until today.
I stopped writing when I found out my dad read my journal, for the second time. The first time, I was hurt, but deep down I believed he was doing it out of love. The second time, I was hurt, betrayed and felt absolutely devastated for the first time in a while. I stopped writing because I didn’t feel like I could trust anyone anymore, and that my words will always be used against me, and no matter how hard I try to keep those words to myself, I felt that someone was always going to be looking for them.
So, I stopped writing. I’ve kept a journal for many years. When my parents first got divorced, they took me and my sister to a counselor, which was a shit-show and I’ve been scared to go back ever since because of the worsening depression I experienced after I left. I didn’t know how to cope with all the emotions that I had never felt before, so I began writing in a journal. It started off whenever I felt like I needed to lift weight off my shoulder, but it soon became something I did every day, this was the lowest point in my life.
(It didn’t help that this was now sixth grade, where everyone is making new friends, and all the people I was spending time with, I had known for less than a couple of months, so I didn’t feel like I had anyone to talk to.)
Anyways, I was in a really bad place at this time. I was severely depressed, didn’t feel like I had anyone to talk to, couldn’t go see a counselor and had only a journal to make myself feel better.
Flash forward to freshman year. Things had settled down, only after they had gotten worse. I felt like I had good friends going into high school and I was ready for (and needed) a change. I still wrote in my journal every day, until my dad read it half way though the year. At the time, I was baffled. For four years, my journal had been the one place where I could open up to my thoughts without the fear of someone becoming scared of me or what goes on in my head. I didn’t know something so little could hurt me so bad.
I stopped writing. I didn’t want to risk getting caught again, so I just stopped. I soon realized that writing my feelings down is the only thing that keeps me sane, because I refuse to talk to anyone about what really goes on in my head, it scares even me to think about it, and I don’t want people to worry. Long story short, my depression began to get bad again, and, as I was newly introduced to the party scene, was going out every weekend and getting wasted and stoned to make myself feel better. This, too, got worse before it got better. I never talked about this with people either. I soon began to feel dependent on drinking and smoking to make myself feel better, since my head was in a bad place and it wouldn’t go away. I felt addicted to both things, so in the beginning of sophomore year, I told myself I needed to slow down, and I did. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I’ve never told anyone that before either.
After I realized that I was becoming dependent on alcohol and drugs to make myself feel better and needed to stop, I decided it was time to start writing again, because I knew if I didn’t, my thoughts would, again, get bad. So I did, and it helped, like it always has before. I trusted it, until May, when my dad read my journal for the second time.
This was the worst thing I have ever felt in my heart. My heart felt like it was sinking, and my mind went a million different directions to the point where I fainted and couldn’t recall what happened five minutes before.
I found out after my parents had an “intervention” with me, and it led to a fight and I was crying in my room when my dad stormed outside to leave, and I hear him yelling through my window “She’s lying! I told you to read her journal and you didn’t! She’s lying right to us and I read her journal as proof.” That is when I blacked out.
I didn’t spend time at his house for four months. It was weird, because before that, I spent every other week at his house. I also didn’t write for four months. My mom quickly took me under her wing and didn’t make me feel bad about myself or treat me like a disappointment. I don’t know where I would be if she didn’t do this for me.
I felt bad though, during the summer, I was mainly okay. There were some really bad days, but there were also some really good days. On the bad days, I made my moms’s life a living hell, and I felt horrible about it, and it only made things worse.
Right now, things are defiantly getting worse, which is why I’m writing this all down. Today of all days was particularly bad. There were some moments that were good, and others that were good but a disaster in my head.
Today I realized that I have no idea who I am. Or maybe I do and I’m just telling myself I’m not sure because I’m scared that this is really who I am, and I don’t want to be this person. I realized that people have all these expectations and beliefs about me, and I’m not sure which ones are true and which ones aren’t, which scares me because this is my life.
Countless times, people have told me that they thought I was a bitch before they got to know me. Others call me a prude. People have called me goody-two-shoes, teachers pet, alcoholic, slut. People are particularly surprised when they find out that I have good grades, others say I’m not challenging myself enough.
People seem to have so many opinions about me that I don’t know who I am anymore.
Today I was talking to someone who doesn’t go to school with me, but who I’ve recently become friends with through other platforms. Although, we’ve never really talked about our personal lives. When we got to talking, I felt relieved being able to talk about my life with someone who had no prior opinions on who I was, and never once made the remark “Really? I didn’t think that about you.”
This was a very good feeling because I’ve recently felt like I don’t fit in anywhere because of my confusion of who I am. I really needed this.
I don’t know why I’m still writing, I guess I’m making up for four lost months. It also could because I’m sobbing and won’t be able to fall asleep anyways, so why not keep writing. I’ve been feeling very empty lately, and if you’re reading this, I don’t want you to think that this is in any way your fault, or that there is anything you can do to help, because there isn’t. I’ve been dealing with this for six years, and the only reason I’m writing this out is because it hasn’t been this bad in a while, and I don’t want to scare or worry anyone. I just want you to be aware what is going on in my life and to understand if or why I’m distant. I don’t want anyone’s pity or to hear “I’m sorry,” I simply want you to be aware, without me having to have an emotional one-on-one with everyone I love.