Post-Its, Fudge Rounds, Slumber Parties, and Serial Killers: Yep, that's how a conversation with me usually goes...

In the past few days or so, I have started and failed to complete more than 5 blogs. I'm sure a couple of times in the past, but I feel those times were most likely due to interruptions like friends coming over or leaving for work. I love to write--always have--and it is my sole remaining coping mechanism when I feel the world closing in on me. Generally when I start writing, the words flow out of me seemingly without me even needing to put pen to paper or my fingers to a keyboard. Of course, I know that's not true, and I simply allow my subconscious to take over, since it is able to recognize and identify what I oftentimes can't seem to express out loud. Everything I fail at speaking to somebody is eloquently expressed on paper. My writing is one of the few things I am almost never ashamed of, and that is rare indeed. So for me to start a blog and then suddenly feel the words evaporate out of my head rather than onto the page...it's slightly disconcerting. What is stranger still, however, is that I'm not more upset by it. The few things I've written down (in paper journal form) seem to possess an entirely new depth of my personality--and I figure that this issue I'm having with writing is merely my brain trying to figure out a way to let this new, even more beautiful, writing flow out of me as words always have in the past. The one part of all of this that scares me is that I woke up the other day to discover I had written in my journal and had no memory of it...and what I read was terrifying. Even my handwriting looked different.

Now I realize what happened. I have been working non-stop, including from home, and stressing out about all the changes around my work place. On my days off, I clean houses or straighten up my own, or have slumber parties with conversations that last until it is far after dawn. I don't have my car back, and I don't know when I will either...and that stress alone was bound to cause some internal, mental turmoil. As for sleeping, I typically get what I'm supposed to, but sometimes the insomnia I experienced in childhood rears its ugly head, and when I am sleeping, my dreams are so vivid and relevant to my life that I can't imagine it's actually very restful. My worry for my friends--and the nagging, ever present feeling that I'll drive them away--has increased exponentially. I'm not positive, but I think a big factor in that issue is rooted in being torn between loving my friends here and wanting desperately to be back in MS. All of these alterations in my life have occurred over the last month, which also seems to be the height of allergy season as well. I was bound to break down a little. So now, I'm taking control of these situations to the best of my ability which, as it turns out, I'm very good at doing. Even if it seems I have forgotten myself, I can always bring myself back and fix the problem. It used to take months, but armed with the right diagnosis and medication I received over a year ago, I'm able to figure things out much faster. Have I mentioned lately how much that decision to go back to therapy and get tested improved my life more than I ever thought possible? It truly did.

I have to admit, however, that I am still reeling from the sudden departure of Riley at work, and as Elise's birthday (July 22nd) gets closer, I can't help but feel sad that she hasn't talked to me in months. I'm still going to send her a letter (to her parent's address, since I don't know hers anymore) and call her on her birthday. I haven't given up hope that my best friend will come back to me. I never will. When she does, I hope that she will be okay; my biggest fear is that she is depressed, and I can't help. All the laughter, tears, hugs, fights, late night conversations, early mornings watching the sunrise in silence after a memorable night with friends, and most of all that deep, sincere understanding that occurs between the best of friends without a word needing to be spoken--I only pray that she hasn't forgotten any of it. There are many, many reasons I want my car back, but the biggest one is wanting to get to MS to see the beautiful faces of my friends and remember myself as they see me--not flawed, but as one who embraces life with such a passion that would make anybody lose their way at times. I would much rather occasionally wear myself out as I take on life with all the intensity in the world than fail to truly live out of fear. My friends from college seem to understand this better than anyone else; indeed, it seems to be what they love most about me. They helped me to view all of my ups and downs as exercises that turned me into who I am today--and will continue to make me a better, more empathetic, sincere person--and they happen to love that person. I know that most believe people aren't truly capable of loving others without first loving themselves, but I had to be loved by people who weren't afraid to give me reasons to love myself first. They aren't perfect people by any means, and we have gotten in fights so big it seemed there could never be a resolution, but that's the thing with people who run full speed ahead at life's obstacles and triumphs: we always find our way back to those who can remind us of our importance when we forget ourselves.

I never thought I would get to a place in my life where I didn't have to merely accept myself, but where I could be proud of who I'm becoming. Sure, I've got a long way to go, but at 25 years old, I know there is plenty of time for me...and I have so many things I've learned to help others. Yes, I'm beginning to very much like who I am. Thank you to those people who tirelessly worked to make me value myself. That work is finally paying off, and though there may be no way to repay that kind of unfailing friendship and love, I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to find a way to give the same support to my wonderful friends. I owe them my life--both quite literally my physical life and also the desire to live it outside of the box. I'm no longer afraid or ashamed of being different; in fact, I'm pretty darn proud of it. "Normal" sounds totally boring anyway.