thatgirlexists

[thatgirlexists]

that girl

I've always wanted to write a memoir.

Up to this day, I still don't understand this fascination I have for memoirs and for writing one of my own. Like why do I have this need to share parts of my life when most of it is shitty? And why am I trying to be funny? For the past few months, all I've shared on the internet is my creeping depression and the silly monsters that are my dogs.

But I do have stories, lots of them go way back and are the very reason why I am this mess of a lady, a pretentious lady. I've always been very careful about the things I say, and the things I share because I pretend to be someone with a reputation to spare. But, not really. Maybe I am a people pleaser like we all are, but I'm just more inclined to the pathological side. Why do we do that? I don't know. Maybe I should go back to therapy and cry about this.

The first story I wanted to tell is why am I starting this.

It's not that I've not written a blog before nor I have not shared a fragment of my memory on the internet, it's just that I've been really careful. I've written a lot about my depression, the causes and effects, my traumas, my inability to have a child, the mundane things, and the howevers and what-ifs. But if you read my first blog, While I'm Not Dead, I've written most of these things in metaphors; not just because I see the beauty in the wordplay, I just cannot spell out "I am fucking depressed" or "I do not have a terrific childhood". I am fucked up in a sense that I want to tell you all of this but I gotta let you think about what I'm talking about.

I also started reading some memoirs, I am heavily inspired by Jenny Lawson. I find her sardonically funny and I also realized how I am supportive of mortifying myself because it kind of helps in a sensical non-sensical way. I won't say don't get me wrong but I somehow feel like this is not a defense mechanism, it is somewhat therapeutic to me. When I talk about how I feel like a rat but kind of like living that way, there will be:

1. People that will shrug it off and think I'm funny

2. People who will find it absurd then shrug it off

3. Type 1 people who will say I should go back to therapy

4. Type 2 people who will say I should go back to therapy

5. People will think that this is the effect of being around my dogs

But really, I feel like a rat and also I am comfortable living this way until my depression and anxiety scream at me at midnight that I am useless and that it should faze me.

I've always wanted to be a writer not because I can write, but only because I have a lot of stories to tell but because I am not really good at speaking. I can say a straight sentence to a complete stranger better than answering my colleagues at work or having a conversation with my in-laws. I am wired weirdly, I guess, and I don't like being judged. I think I am a weird rat but this rat is also great; I just don't know how to start doing great things.

Last week I heard that someone I knew died. We were pretty close when we were children. It feels weird admitting that I was really affected by her death when we grew apart through the years but for the past week, there was not a day that I didn't think about her. She was great, a promising young woman. But why did she was taken from this world too soon? Why her when there are millions of rats like me? And it is also weird to say that at least she did great things before she was gone because why end it too soon when she can do more?

It got me thinking that the comfort of being content causes my discomfort. Maybe I really want to be at great heights, I am just afraid of climbing because I do not want to fall. Maybe I really want to reach a new island, but I am not paddling, I just float in my canoe. The idea of dying young is never a foreign idea to me but I am past of wanting that. What if I can do more? Will I wait to get old? Will I just let my dreams die? All because I think I am wired differently?

While I was still cruising on the boulevard of possibilities, that girl I once knew stopped at the intersection too soon. It made me realize a lot of things...

To start, maybe this rat needs to get out of her hole more.

Finally finished reading this yesterday, I didn't expected that towards the end, the story behind the cover will be revealed. What a rat.

#blog