I can’t seem to find myself. I thought I knew what I was meant to do. I thought I had a purpose. I thought I had it all figured out. I was going to write, I was going to inspire, and I was going to help people love themselves.

I gave up on that. For some reason I stopped trying. I can’t tell you when or why, because I can’t even pinpoint it myself. I wish I had more information on that. I wish I could explain to myself why I lack the motivation I once had. Why do I not have the self-confidence I want to inspire others to have? Why do I not feel the beauty within when I see it in everyone else?

At the end of the day, I’m just as broken, just as weak, and just as dim as any other time in my life. There’s no hiding it. This time once again, I am trying to get my life back on track. My mental life back on track. I keep having moments of panic. My body sweats, then I start to feel weak in the legs, and then my eyes burn. My mental panic goes into overdrive and it takes everything I have not to collapse onto the floor in a pool of tears. There’s no really reason to it either. Not to the “normal” standards anyway. I think there’s confusion on how someone is “supposed” to deal with these types of emotions.

When my birth mother died a few years ago, it opened up a world of emotions I had long forgotten about. When you are young, and being thrown around a few homes for a few years, you forget how to feel. That follows you. Apparently for many years after. I have my own children and I have so much love and emotion for them, you can only imagine what I’m willing to do for them-what I already have done for them. I don’t regret a single choice in my life-not one. Because it is exactly what I wanted at that time in life.

Who am I? What is my purpose in this life? Why can I not grasp the idea that being truly happy is a gift, and something attainable? Why does my body react as if it is actually under attack once I start to feel that happiness within reach? It’s like I’m my own self-destruct button in my own mind. My ideal day involves sitting in a ball, watching Netflix and crying a lot. Why? Because I’m comfortable that way.

I have finally felt the sun on my face this year. I haven’t been outside in the sun, outside LIVING in years. So many years. This year, I took control, and I did it. I went out, I wore shorts and dresses that I loved and actually felt comfortable in. I participated in gatherings and said “YES!” when my kids asked to go outside and play-and then went out with them to play. No more hiding. I did really good too. I actually felt the happiness I was looking for. I mean I FELT it.

That was the most terrifying feeling I have felt in my life. The pure joy, and the ability to get lost in the laughs and the smiles. The genuine self love I had, the glimmer in my life. Then I realized how easy it was, and I went into a panic. A pure, shielded panic. This was not the feelings I was used to having. Being “happy” isn’t something I should be feeling, right? My whole life I have always felt guilty as soon as I was feeling happy. Happy with my family who adopted me meant I was happy without my biological side. Happy with friends meant I wasn’t sharing every waking moment with my parents, and if they left too, I would have less memories to hold onto. Happiness at school meant I was enjoying hanging out with different people. So I got comfortable. I got comfortable either feeling angry, sad, or self-hating, or nothing at all-complete numbness.

As an adult I know how incredibly “silly” that is. But as a child, I was set on trying to make other people happy and hurting as little people as possible-even if that meant hurting myself the most. I’ve always been a people-pleaser. I want to make people laugh, and make them feel great about themselves! I want them to know having the world in their hands is more than possible-it’s achievable!

So….why the hell can I not know this for myself?


Til next time.