My about page gets either one of two reactions:

1. Wow, you’ve been through so much and it’s completely amazing and you totally inspire me, thanks for sharing.

Or,

2. How could you share that on the computer? How could you tell lots of people that? You shouldn’t be sharing that with people. It’s shocking. It’s not nice.

Both reactions have at one time or another made me uncomfortable, or nervous.

Reaction #1

This one used to make me uncomfortable because, oh my god, me? An inspiration? What the heck? Are you sure you’re talking to me?

On the other hand, while saying I want to “inspire people” sounds a bit pretentious, I certainly do share my story to encourage people. Things like depression and suicide and abuse and illness are never talked about. They’re not considered maintstream, they’re not considered “nice”. They’re not the kind of thing that you share in polite society.

The only problem with that is I don’t give a damn what polite society wants.

I’ve spent enough time in my life trying to become someone I’m not, and trying to fit into a mold that’s socially acceptable. I’m tired of it.

My story is a huge, huge part of what I do on a daily basis. It’s a huge part of my art, it’s a huge part of how I act and behave and feel. My story is me. I couldn’t hide any part of it without feeling dirty, and inauthentic.

I can’t pretend to be someone I’m not. I can’t pretend that I’m not intensely passionate about creating a life worth living because goddammit, I spent a long time living a life that made me miserable.

I hope that my story inspires people, not to worship me and put me on a pedestal, but to go out there and (cheese alert) reach for their dreams. To not accept the hand they’ve been dealt, but to make their own hand. Throw out the cards, and pick up a paintbrush or a pencil or a guitar. A computer. Whatever.

But don’t let the rest of the world decide your fate for you. Life’s too precious for that.

Reaction #2

Reaction #2 used to freak me out. It used to trigger all sorts of shame that I had about my past – that I shouldn’t talk about it, or share it, or anything. That I should just continue to fake it and act like my life was perfect.

Problem with that is I’m really, really bad at it. I just cannot hide everything that I’ve been through, because it’s like pretending 5-6 years of my life just didn’t happen, didn’t form the person that I’ve become.

I get that some people are super uncomfortable with my past. They don’t want to think about it, they don’t want to talk about it, and that’s their prerogative. It used to make me feel guilty, like I somehow caused them all this discomfort, but I’ve come to realize that it’s their own issues and patterns being triggered. My story can’t make some people happy and some people upset, and still be entirely in my hands. I can’t control what people think.

I can only present the truth.

I’ve never once advocated that depression is the way to go, or that suicide is life’s answer. If you read my about page properly, you’ll come to see that my life’s mission is to encourage others and show them that those routes aren’t necessary and that there’s more to life than most will allow.

My about page is about gratitude for my life now, and my deep passion to share hope with others.

The one thing that I’ve learned

I can’t be someone I’m not. Even on the weekend, when I felt so out of place with Jesse’s friends, it was because I was trying so hard to fit in, to be like them and I made myself miserable. I had this expectation of myself that to be liked, I had to be someone else. (Hello, Pattern. We meet again.)

I’m tired of trying to make my pentagonal peg fit in the the circular hole. It’s just not working.

I’ve spent my whole life miserable because I’ve been denying myself, my passions, my loves, my hates, and my oddities. I’ve been desperately trying to be anyone but me. Guess what I’ve learned?

Denial of self is misery.

That’s so important, that I’m going to repeat it again – denial of self is misery.

Every time you ignore yourself, or disrespect yourself, or are ashamed of yourself in some way, your soul cries and you’re pretty miserable. It’s the source of all of the misery that’s ever been in my life – that feeling that I’m the wrong me, that I should be someone else.

I’m not. I’m supposed to be me, with my story and my past and my loves and passions and hates and oddities. It’s impossible for me to be anyone else and happy at the same time.

I don’t apologize for this either. I refuse to apologize for myself for a single day longer.

I am me. If you don’t like it, that’s too bad. If you do – awesomesauce. We can be friends.:)

Welcome to the Be Yourself Club.