Let’s Get Real

I want to start this journey of a post by saying that the past five years of my life have not been miserable every second. They haven’t been miserable every day. They haven’t even been miserable every week or every month. I’ve had amazing, incredible, life-changing experiences within these years. I’ve met amazing people, learned one million things from many awesome people in my career, and grown, travelled, laughed, and loved with all of the wonderful people in my life — both old and new.

So, I want to make that clear. This is not a pity party, this is not a “I’m miserable and am still miserable and will always be miserable” situation.

This is fucking real.

That’s all.

Because the truth is, I’m tired. I’m tired of writing posts and thinking I’ve reached an answer and then falling back down again. I’m tired of being on a high for two days and then letting the demons come take over again.

I’m tired of hating myself — of not allowing myself to go on dates, to go to the beach, to EAT THE FUCKING DONUT BECAUSE I WANT THE FUCKING DONUT AND NOT BECAUSE I HATE THE FUCKING DONUT.

I’m just really tired.

I turn 27 in 7 months. Now, people preach that age doesn’t matter, to take your time in life, that everyone is on their own path — and I get it. Okay? I get it.

And I believe it. And I live it.

But here’s where I’m not okay with it. Here’s where I have decided it does matter.

I refuse to wake up when I’m 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 45, 53 — any age I have left on the earth — in the same spot I am today.

I just. fucking. refuse.

So let me back up, because some of you, right now, are thinking this:

What is she talking about? She moved to her dream city. She got promoted. She is a successful career woman and has a ton of amazing friends and family.

And you aren’t wrong. And I’m insanely grateful for all of it.

And, in fact, I wouldn’t change a thing.

But here’s what you don’t know (well, some of you do — if you’ve read anything here before).

You don’t know that I, at minimum once a week, have an intense binging episode that leaves me feeling empty, ashamed, depressed, anxious — dead. You don’t know that I write insane strategic life plans with goals for myself at least once a week only to fail at them over and over again. You don’t know that I’ve tried every single diet you could try. You don’t know that I loathe myself on the regular, that, a few times in my life, I haven’t even recognized myself in the mirror. You don’t that I have gotten so low that I have considered not being alive. You don’t know that I went through a phase where I wouldn’t leave the house because I thought I was just. that. gross. You don’t know that I live in a world where all I think about is food, money, career, goals, how much I suck compared to you — scarcity in all things. You don’t know that I did a body building competition in the hopes of gaining my perfect self only to relapse into a year of depression as a result. You don’t know that I fail daily to live balanced and free. You don’t know that I have gone on a total of no more than five dates in the past six years because I simply don’t let myself. Because I’m simply scared. You don’t know that I, no matter how vulnerable you may find me here, no matter how much I share and no matter how many friends I have, am often, deeply lonely and absolutely fucking terrified to let someone actually, truly, in.

I’m high performing.

My resume is legit, social media on point, and I have my shit together.

But that’s the thing about the human condition. We all pretend everything is fine, when sometimes, we’re hurting. Sometimes we’re hurting so bad that we don’t know what else to do except pretend we’re okay because what if we’re actually not okay and what if this is real and what if I’m a terrible, judgy person and what if what if what if?

So here’s the thing.

I’m really tired of being fine. I’m really tired of the stupid fucking brand I set up for myself as being this badass/wears black/drinks black coffee because she has no soul/never needs a man because she’s on a mission girl. I’m really tired of being miss independent “who has no emotions and never cries.”

Because… you want to know why I never cry? It’s because I EAT MY FEELINGS INSTEAD (you’re allowed to laugh here, like actually please do).

I also buy my feelings, strategize my feelings, and social media/dopamine hit my feelings but we can talk about that another day (omg hi I’m super stable, date me?).

So I’m tired.

Because today, like any other day, I sat down and started writing out my goals. “Get back into dance,” I wrote. “Keep up workout plan,” I penned. “Save X amount,” I jotted down.

And then I realized that this was probably the 1,645,987th time I had done this in the past six years.

And then I realized that that was fucking bullshit and that that made no fucking sense.

Nothing changes if nothing changes.

Why I continuously think my same ways of doing things to “get better” will work I don’t know. I’m the literal walking version of insanity if you really think about it. And all of us are, in some way or another.

We bitch about not having money, yet we go out for another dinner with wine. We bitch about losing weight yet we refuse to go move our bodies. We bitch about XYZ and continue to feed XYZ rather than change it.

I guess I just don’t get it. And I guess, I finally am completely and one hundred percent OVER doing this to myself time and time again.

Because I refuse to wake up in my mid thirties or forties or late twenties or any time ever and wonder where my years went. I refuse to wake up saying, “man, I’ll buy those jeans once I hit my goal size” one more god damn day of my life. I refuse to wake up in twenty years being the fun aunt and wondering, “why am I single?” when the reason I’m fucking single is BECAUSE I FUCKING SAID NO TO EVERY DATE EVER (but really though like I may have already shut down my soulmate — the world will never know).

I refuse to wake up wondering who I am or what my identity is or anything else because the truth is that none of it even matters.

It doesn’t matter what your business card says or what you’re an expert in or what pant size you are.