"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." ~Maya Angelou

i used to write nonstop in high school. i have dozens of journals, filled from cover to cover with various colored inks & pen line thicknesses. they are probably tucked away somewhere in a cardboard box, hidden inside the dark recesses of my creepy basement. they are somewhat embarrassing to read now. some of the problems i had back then were painful & profound; but most were so trivial & juvenile. the writings conveyed such deep feelings of aloneness, despite the fact that i had lots of friends & a loving family. & i felt so misunderstood. i would read poem after poem of my favorite authors to possibly find a line that i could relate to. then i'd copy it down in a different color pen, possibly draw a vine around it, decorated with flowers so it would stand out enough to read it later. don't get me wrong, i enjoyed high school. i wasn't super popular & i didn't go to all the parties each weekend. but i also wasn't the girl who sat by herself, or smelled bad & wore black makeup. although i did fart out loud once in the middle of calculus & i thought that i would die of humiliation. at school i had a tight group of friends who got along with nearly everybody. we had boyfriends & got into a minimal, yet harmless, amount of mischief. however at home, at night, while alone in my room, all i would want to do was sit with the lights turned low, listen to slow grunge ballads & write page after page in my journals. & maybe cry a little bit.

i think there is a deep down desire for people to be understood, not only by those around them but also by themselves. i think it was good for me to get my thoughts & feelings out on paper, however asinine & immature it appears now. they were true & real. & it helped me to better know myself. as i went off to college, writing became less & less frequent. i still have some journals from recent years, infrequent & partially-filled. but it wasn't like those in high school. i couldn't skip a day of writing back then; it was my water, my air. & i was slowly losing my sustenance when i stopped journaling.

eventually, i stopped being honest with myself. i learned the hard way that when you aren't truthful to yourself, you can't be true to anyone else. i was trying too hard to be what everyone else wanted me to be. & meanwhile i was ignoring my authentic feelings & needs, hiding them deep below those disconcerting moments you try hard to forget, like the first time you had to wear a pad after getting your period or when the entire school bus laughed at you when your neighbor called you "rudolph" after standing in the cold. it became easier to lie to myself, to become someone i didn't know, a complete & total stranger to myself.

it took a lot for me to even begin to embrace myself again: a lot of guidance, gentleness, grieving, & grace. i still have moments of regression, when i want to keep anger inside because it isn't always an appropriate emotion to feel. or when i feel neglected, i sometimes still feel the urge to press it down, along with the abandonment issues from my dad. but i remember that when i feel those moments as they come, express them as they need to be expressed, they won't stay concealed, festering & causing destruction to my insides. i can't afford to go back to being that stranger again.

being honest is a difficult task. but it is so liberating. i feel like i have this openness to give to others. i hope that by sharing these arduous & delicate stories that others can experience the same epiphany: that we don't have to live life alone. that there is nothing so unbearable & horrendous that we have to ignore our true selves. that we don't have to be ashamed or guilty. we are simply living out our lives the best we know how. we all make mistakes, some bigger & more harmful than others. but when we can get past all the harmful judgements we bring to others & ourselves, we can release ourselves from so much agony & finally be free.