Well? Can you? That’s one of the big questions I’ve had on my mind this weekend.
I’ve tried to be pretty blunt and honest lately about what I’ve been going through because a) it’s my blog and given that it doubles as a type of journal for me, I can write about whatever I want, b) there’s more to me than passport stamps and hamburgers, and c) I want something good to come out of this struggle, and if only one single other person reads this and decides to fight on, it’ll be worth it.
So, this weekend, I took off. I left the real world on Friday morning, and made my way to Warburton. I’m really struggling to deal with everything that’s going on at the moment, and I thought the shit ton of money I’d been spending on psychologist sessions might be better spent booking a room far enough away from it all to give myself the space to mull it all over. There were questions I needed to answer that no professional could have possibly helped with:
– What’s at the heart of all of this pain?
– Who do I want to be? Who could I be without depression?
– Why do I dislike myself so much? Why have I no confidence in myself?
– How have I ended up believing that I’m unworthy of the good stuff in life?
– When and why did I start believing my self worth was directly correlated to my weight and clothing size?
– Who was I before I lost myself? Who was I before I stopped being me and stated trying to be who I thought the world wanted me to be?
I spent my weekend walking the river trail, eating slowly and mindfully. I meditated, went to cafes alone to enjoy a pot of tea and some time to write, and treated myself to a much needed massage. I wrote, a lot – it helps me to clear my mind and understand myself better. And among other questions I answered and revelations I had, I thought long and hard on that big question: who was I before the world told me who I should be? That’s gotta be one of, if not the hardest question to ask yourself and answer honestly. Who was I?
I was an introvert, that hasn’t changed. But I didn’t care what anyone else thought of it.
I had my dreams and ideas, and never stopped to consider that they might not work out, that they could fail. I just made the things I wanted happen, by myself and for myself.
I was headstrong with the added bonus of not giving a damn about what anyone thought.
I never gave any thought to what I ate, nor what my body looked like. It was never important.
I didn’t surpress my creativity. One of my favourite things to do when my soul was hurting (depression and I go way back, like, literally half my life,) was to go for a long walk with my camera and take photos of whatever caught my eye. I found beauty in the most mundane everyday things, I developed roll after roll of film, and I did it just because it made me happy. So that’s what I did this weekend; I walked and drove and walked some more. I explored out in the fresh air, and when something caught my eye, I stopped and captured it.
That girl wasn’t always happy; she still suffered relentlessly from depression just like today’s me does. But back then, I didn’t care what “they” thought, I wasn’t trying to be someone I wasn’t, I was just doing things that I wanted to do, that made me feel good, that captured and created beauty. This weekend helped me remember who I was before the world jaded me. I’m grateful.