Home » depression » Hindsight is 20/20 – maybe

Hindsight is 20/20 – maybe

Looking backward…

In order to work on myself, I’ve been doing some hardcore soul-searching, and past-life regression.

As in, taking a long, hard, look at who I really was when I was younger…warts and all.

I’m not going to sugar-coat any-damn-thing, or try to rationalize bad behaviors for myself.

If I’m truly going to make any progress with figuring out how I ended up where I am today, & how I can move forward in a healthier way…

I need to get out of my own fucking way.

Because what I’ve been doing up until now?

Not healthy.

I know this.

I just don’t know, yet, how to fucking change it.

I know what results I want to see…

I just don’t think I’ll ever get there.

And that makes me even more depressed.

******

Deep breath

******

I – grew up fairly sheltered, as a kid. I was a nerd, didn’t play sports – was horribly bad at them, in fact, unless they happened from the back of a horse.

I was shy, and teased and bullied throughout my school years until I graduated high school.

Except when I was around my best friend, who I trusted. Then, I was outgoing, funny, sarcastic & able to open up. She saw a whole different side of me than everyone else, including my creative side, & encouraged me to express it.

In college, which only lasted about a year and a half (I shouldn’t have gone, I really wasn’t ready & wasted so much time & money there), I truly changed.

I had, by this time, lost my virginity, after throwing it away on my one and only high school boyfriend. (Who lasted about 2 months, until after his prom…no joke. But then, I had decided my virginity was mostly a hindrance, anyway, & used him to “get rid” of it… Not because I was in love. *snort*)

At this point, I wasn’t thinking about what had happened to me when I was 16. I wasn’t flashing back to being molested… Although, I’ve never slept on my stomach since that night.

Not once. Not ever.

But, I was using sex as a weapon. Of sorts, anyway.

I used it to feel good about myself.

Because if a guy wanted to have sex with me, that meant I was desirable, right?

That meant I had worth, right?

I meant something, even if it was only for a little while…

It made me feel powerful…in the moment.

Until afterwards.

Until I felt cheap.

When I was just ignored the next day, if I was even remembered.

But hey, I was a badass, right?

I stomped through the parties with my smartass, snarky mouth, my nickname “Dragon Lady” more because my words could burn people down than because I smoked. I gave no shits…

At least where they could see.

But…

God, did I care.

I burned through a handful of “boyfriends” in college, short-timers, because I would inevitably be a bitch at some point to them, & they’d wander off in search of calmer waters.

I never cheated, don’t get me wrong.

But, I’d drive them off, usually finding that one pet peeve, guaranteed to piss them right the hell off, and pick at that until they’d had just ENOUGH.

Done and dusted, I would be vindicated once again, knowing that I wasn’t worth the trouble. No one was really willing to chase me down & stick with me.

I just wasn’t worth it.

Not for anyone.

After all…when I was molested, even my parents didn’t believe me. They couldn’t even be concerned enough to come get me, instead having family members bounce me from one house to another for almost 2 weeks, before I finally reached home, after the “incident”. And then, it was never mentioned again.

Not until the summer after I quit college.

The summer of my complete abandon, my downward spiral, and their accusations of drug abuse & attempt at throwing me into therapy.

But – that’s for the next post.

I’m tapped.

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