The last few weeks have been interesting ones…

My boyfriend’s mother gave me a book called Creating a Life Worth Living, and it has made me think a lot about the things that make me who I am. I used to think that it was the experiences I’ve been through, the people I’ve known, or even the things I have done for myself that create my behaviour and thought patterns. Now it seems that I am myself based on my speech, thoughts, creativity, and general imagination.

I don’t know why my thoughts on what made me myself seemed to be so heavily based on others, and it’s still puzzling me a bit. My theory seems to stem from being constantly surrounded by people for the first several years of my life. The family I am from doesn’t exactly cater to the introverted. Finding myself alone at any one moment seemed to be a blessing to me, and I focused in on myself to think of my inner most desires, which usually gravitated towards having a better future. Some pretty intense thoughts for an eight-year-old, though I found that whenever I expressed these thoughts, they were drowned in words of others. It was like my voice was the heaviest in the room, and it just sunk to the floor. The moment someone did hear me, I was told not to think of those things, or I was made to feel ashamed for not considering my “family”.

Most people I tell the story of my youth to seem to reply with a stunned face. It’s a face that burns into my memory; It’s sort of a “I hope you’re kidding…where’s the punch line?” type of look. After the general shock subsides, a look of relief, sadness, and then a pat on the back, a shoulder rub, or a hand touch. I had begun to tell people things about my past with a smile on my face, because if I’m not sad, they wont be…right? Wrong. I’ve learned to just not bring it up anymore. It really could have been worse.

Today, I unpacked my pictures. Pictures of friends and family, although these days they are the same thing. I look up at them when writing to remind me that these people know me and my past, but they still listen when I need to talk. They know not to make that face, and they know not to tell me to “just get over it”, they know I have horrible anxiety, and they still love me. They are the closest thing I have to unconditional, and they know damn well I’ll always have a spot in my heart for them.