When I first started blogging in 2012, I posted at least once a day. I think it was mostly because I needed something to do with myself that made me feel somewhat productive. (And not just a loser who couldn’t keep her damn job.)
I was waiting to be approved for disability and feeling extremely worthless.
But alas, the words stopped flowing. I realized that I just couldn’t keep up with such an insane pace. I started to write when I felt like I had something to write about, even if that meant days or weeks went by.
It’s amazing that I’ve known some of you guys for almost seven years. Blogging seriously saved my sanity and gave me something to be proud of. I’m not even talking about my follower count or how many likes a post gets. Just knowing that maybe I cheered someone up or made them feel less alone lifted my own dampened spirits.
I’m naturally good at four things; writing, cooking, being funny and driving.
Everything else takes a bit more effort. Like, math.
But I haven’t been all that humorous in what feels like ages. I can still bust out a joke and see the humorous side of things, but damn if it isn’t often just a cover-up to hide my emotional pain.
But, you know, most of the funniest people in the world are depressed.
Yes, I use my sense of humor to distract people from seeing my damaged psyche. I’ll admit it.
I was told so often as a young child that I was hilarious, so I suppose I started getting a bit of an ego. For someone who has sketchy self-esteem, it’s way out of character for me.
Like, if someone tells me that I’m funny, I’ll just shrug.
“Yeah, I know. It’s a gift.”
Look at me, being all smug and shit.
If I completely lose my sense of humor, then there’s something seriously wrong with me. Please call the nearest comedian and then throw chocolate bars at me, while playing a video of George Carlin doing stand-up.
Life has desperately tried to suck the funny out of my bones.
(We all have our stories of sadness and woe, I’m aware of that, but this is my blog.)
I had mental health issues as a little girl. I saw my first psychologist at 8 years old. (I get a kick out of repeating that tidbit of info.)
I was an awkward and unpopular kid who attended a small, repressed Catholic school. The boys teased me relentlessly, the girls were all mean bitches and I was always chosen last for any team sports.
“You can have her!”
“No!! You can have her!”
“Oh man, we’re gonna lose. Thanks for sucking ass, Mer.”
I didn’t have a real best friend until I started public high school, but I sadly continued to be teased. Even on my fucking graduation day, my two main tormentors for those entire 4 years um…tormented me.
I watched as my father died the day after I turned 12.
I was date raped at 19.
I lived with my 1st abuser, my offspring’s biological father, for 6 hellish years.
And on and on…you get the gist.
I’ve had good things happen. Great (real) friends, awesome parents, a beautiful daughter and finally a wonderful boyfriend who treats me so well, I wake up every day amazed that God put him in my life.
Life hasn’t been all shit on wheat toast and I’m ever so grateful for that.
But all of that bad shit, it loves to follow me around. It’s like having a slideshow of bothersome memories inside my head, on repeat. It doesn’t seem to matter where I am or what I’m doing. I could be out somewhere with my boyfriend Steven, having a lovely time. Just trying so hard to live in the moment.
All of a sudden, there’s a clip of my first ex telling me what a fat, ugly bitch I am.
Stupid, he whispers.
Kiss my ass, I whisper back.
“What?” Back in the present, my boyfriend asks me.
“You have a nice ass,” I say.
I’d like to end this post with some song lyrics, a little ditty by the great Tim McGraw.
One of these days I’m gonna love me
And feel the joy of sweet release
One of these days, I’ll rise above me
And at last I’ll find some peace
Then I’m gonna smile a little
Maybe even laugh a little but
One of these days I’m gonna love me