Criticize my walk as I watch you crawl.

I blog for me.  It's one of the only things that helps me to straighten out my thoughts and feel better about my decisions.  I don't do it thinking about what people will think or what questions I might have to answer about what I post.  These are my feelings.  As directly related to me--no one else.  When I was younger, I always tried to keep a journal.  It was one of those things that I felt that people with their shit together did.  I got my first diary when I was about ten years old, it was one of those ones that had a lock on it and everything.  But I was scared to death to write how I really felt about anything in it.  Surely, my sister would find it and read it.

The same thing in high school and college.  Apparently, people thought that I have a lot to say because the number one gift that I was given throughout high school AND college was journals.  Ones with pictures on the covers, ones that were beaded....the list goes on.  I would always use the first five pages or so and then chicken out.  I guess it felt easier not to say anything.  

Well, the not saying anything really took a toll.  I ended up being that 20 year-old who was depressed, quiet, and scared to say anything for fear of being judged.  It took a pretty big breakdown, a little bit of therapy, and some prescription medicine (that I am now totally against--  for me anyway) for me to realize that I was my worst critic.  The only journal that I ever actually filled was one that I bought for myself.  It was bright and colorful and designed by a woman named SARK.  I wrote the whole journal in bright colorful markers and added pictures and quotes whenever I could.  And now I have this journal documenting my journey.  It's on my bookshelf and when people come over, they sometimes mistake it for an actual book.  And most of the time, I'm okay with that.

Being someone who is so private about so many things, it shocks me that I can do this.  That I can write these things and just throw them out there.  But the truth is that as much as that one journal helped me, it also felt so much like the private side of me.  Only me and my old therapist knew what was actually in there.  And I needed more.  Figuring out all that I did about myself in my early twenties made me want to live loudly.  I could stay all bottled up or I could be the me I loved.  So here I am.  Loud.  This is for me.  My thoughts.  My worries.  My love for everything that makes up this crazy life.