It's too easy to make life look wonderful on the Internet. It's too easy to give a false representation of who you are, when you’re hurting, who you love.
Since moving, not one person from “home” has assumed i’ve felt anything other than happy. They tell me:
“You look like you’re having so much fun!”
“You post the best pictures! Your adjustment must’ve barely sucked!”
Yes, I was blessed to move to an incredible place, I've met beautiful people & I am finally settling into a nice little niche here, but it has by no means been an easy, carefree time. And according to my Instagram and Facebook, all i do is hangout at the beach, drink coffee, think witty thoughts and post scripture.
SO glad i can encourage you but, no one seems to realize that’s what i need.
I moved out of my childhood home, I broke up with my boyfriend, I left the small amount of friends I did have. It may be beautiful, I may have some friends now, but my heart aches.
The first few months felt like I was on a roller coaster with my eyes squeezed tightly shut, begging for it to stop. I'm yelling, "is it over yet?!" "can I get off?!" and no one can hear me.There was so much change, I could barely process it. I tricked myself into believing I was having an easy time, it would be great, I would be okay.
I live in the cutest city! ...and by the BEACH? could it get any better?!
...But I was lonely, hurting, jumping into so much change I barely had time to think about it. Mourning, but not recognizing it. Trying to compensate with things that were hurting me even more.
I wanted to be friends with anyone willing to have me. I had sex, I went out drinking, I smoked weed. I just wanted to belong somewhere. The few Christians I had met my first few weeks made me feel awkward. I felt like i didn’t belong. I felt judged. Where the hell was the southern hospitality?! But did I tweet about all the people who looked right through me at the churches we visited? How progressively angry i was becoming? Would i tweet about my broken heart & the attachment my soul felt to that boy with a beautiful exterior but a dark, ugly heart, who didn't care about me in the least? Who pushed me back into bad habits that destroyed me even further? At 3 am when I was tossing and turning and having flashbacks?
I got sick, weird things were happening to my body without explanation. I didn't understand it, I wanted it to STOP! I began to try to figure out what was happening to me & in that time things seemed to get worse. I gained 30 pounds in 6 months, and another 10 trying to fix it. None of that is something you'd see me willingly post on Facebook. Would i post a status saying, “good morning! i stepped on the scale today and i cried for ten minutes.” or, “Hey ya’ll, none of my clothes fit! hmu if you trynna hit the mall later.”? No.
Instead I share videos of puppies, humans of new york, and on occasion, a small bit of encouragement that no one realizes is all that’s keeping me together today.
I’m broken. Obliterated. In pieces.
And I know it could be so much worse. I don’t have cancer, whatever is wrong is not chronic, I’m still living...
But I am a shell of myself.
I’ve slowly been deteriorating for the last two years. Some of it is my fault, some of it isn’t.
But, do you see me on Instagram, posing with my love handles and double chin in all of their glory? Of course not! You get a selfie, on days when looking in the mirror doesn’t make me nauseous for a second. My makeup & hair would look nice for the 5 seconds it took to falsely represent what I look like, and how I feel, and we'd move on. I wouldn’t post a caption telling you I walk into rooms in public and feel relieved when someone is obviously larger than I am. I wouldn’t tell you that I feel trapped in my middle and high school body again, lost and confused and wanting to hide because I feel too ugly, inside and out, for anyone to want me.
And I have been running to the cross on my bad days, clinging tightly to truth. But it slips through most times. It’s as if i’m trying to go up the down escalator and Jesus is at the top. I am continually slipping, or falling, back into the haze of the first floor. The floor of mourning and hurt, where i either feel everything or nothing. Sometimes i can get to the second floor and find what i need, but i always end up back at the bottom again.
Tonight is a first floor night.
