And I have something very important to say.
Nearly two years ago, I stopped posting. And I’ve got my reason. I didn’t stop because I had no time to, as a matter of fact I’ve had plenty of time. I was in a huge crisis. And I still kind of am. There will be a lot of changes, I’ll probably delete several old posts of mine, maybe even all of them. I’ll figure that out later. So what is it, that kept me from writing on my blog, that I actually am attached to, despite anything?
Let me explain. Let me be a little more personal here
When I was nine, I noticed how the kids around me hit puberty and it kind of made me excited for mine. How will I look like when I’m older? The process of puberty always fascinated me in a way I just cannot explain. But then I hit puberty. And it hit me hard, right where it hurts. My breasts started to grow, my skin grew sensitive and swell. I cried myself to sleep, praying they’d go away. I couldn’t tell why, I didn’t know. At first my parents thought I’m sad due to the hormones I’ve had yet to adjust to. But my sadness grew into depression over the year. I was ten, when I, for the first time in my life, shoved my finger down my throat. The rush of adrenaline, fear, and disgust rolled over me like a bowlder and left me exhausted, tired, with a swollen face and a sore throat. It felt like I was an empty shell, no more emotions, like my soul left my body. I loved it. When I was thirteen, and my hips had gotten wider, I took a razor in my hands and cut my skin. Not knowing why I imagined cutting myself away. A year later, I was hospitalized for seven weeks, but I was left with assumptions. “You don’t want to grow up and that is because you’re scared of adulthood.” But I wasn’t. Yet, I didn’t correct them, i stayed silent. All I knew was, that I wanted my puberty to stop. Desperately. I went to therapy over the years, diagnosed with Bulimia Nervosa and chronic depression. When I was sixteen I was sure I won’t ever turn 21, I’d die before I’d hit that age, and I wanted to make sure I would. But when I was eighteen I was finally ready to leave my disorder, to which I’ve grown attached to, behind. I gained weight. I felt better, stronger. But my hips grew wider, my breasts grew bigger, even though they still remained small. I didn’t wear a bra, I never did, I hated them with all my guts. And it upset me, how people told me, that it was wrong not to, that I wasn’t feminine enough. And even though I still didn’t start wearing one, I started to dress more feminine, I painted my nails, I put make up on. But I wasn’t comfortable. I thought back to when I was fifteen to seventeen when I used tape to flatten my chest. And I remembered how proud I used to be. Now I’m twenty years old, and I learned to accept who I really am, I learned, that hiding myself just is not the right way. And it’s not okay to do so for anyone. I chose my way. I’ve found it.
In the end that sixteen year old girl was right, she’d never turn 21 and she’ll make sure she won’t. But he will.