Reminder:

I’ve only wavered 37 times since the first post. By that, I mean I’ve had thoughts like this:

Oh my gosh, what if my coworkers read this and think I’m some crazy person?! Well, that wouldn’t be far off. What if my boss reads this?! What then? What if someone I don’t even know reads this and ends up knowing more about me than people in my actual life?! Is this just another thing I start and don’t finish? Why did I do this again?!

It takes a real professional to make worrying look this easy. “Fake it until you make it!” That seems to have been the motto of my parent’s generation. A better one would be, “Pretend nothing terrible at all is happening” while the metaphorical house is burning down.

I’ve been learning to fake it for as long as I can remember. By age 10 I realized that the odd feeling I had around other people was, indeed, an effort to appear “normal.” Painfully shy at some points in my childhood, not socializing, giving me enough time to observe who I was around long enough so I could blend in. It didn’t take too long before I realized being my true weirdo self would come with a price.

Do you remember that feeling you had when you found out Santa wasn’t real? I am so so sincerely sorry if this is the first time you’ve heard this. I don’t want to be that person. But you needed to know. Ok, so the feeling is something like this: WHAT?! MY ENTIRE CHILDHOOD HAS BEEN ONE BIG LIE?!! HOW COULD YOU, BETRAYERS! WHAT’S NEXT, MOM AND DAD?! SUNNY D ISN’T GOOD FOR ME?! YOU’RE IN THE SECRET SERVICE?* In one sharp moment, your entire holiday experience has been transformed into a day that seems fun, sure, but contains absolutely no magic anymore. Then we spend the rest of our adult lives trying to find ways to keep it magical for our kids. Because we know the rarity of this gift. We know that once they know, they can’t unknow. Try saying that five times fast.

K, so you have this feeling in your mind right now. This is how I felt when my own magic began to disappear. No, not like actual magic, I wasn’t a magician, I just speak in metaphors, come on. By age 11, my youthful brain, still with a premature frontal cortex, had somehow fully understood that who I was, wasn’t enough.

My sister, whom I love dearly, is fourteen years older than me. No worries, I’ll do the math for you. When I was 11, she was 25. Not sure if you’ve been either of those ages but if you have been, you know there’s some major life differences going on. She was a cool surfer girl who had this positive energy and seemed to get along with everyone (This is still true today!). I was an awkward sixth grader who was still climbing trees and playing outside as much as possible.

So here it is. The first time I remember feeling the magic go away. Sis and Mom are in the big bathroom putting on makeup and I am nearby watching them chat. Picture day is coming up at school. I hate picture day. Everyone does. Pretty sure that’s why the pictures cost so damn much. Because even the photographer hates it. The photographer says, “You can’t pay me enough to do what you’re asking. I’m sorry, how much did you say these idiots will pay for a halfway decent headshot?! Ok I’m in.”

Sis tells mom something about my eyebrows needing shaping and mentions parting my hair a different way. My mom agreed. There it was. My big Sis, who I looked up to so much and who knew everything about everything, was giving suggestions to my mom about my appearance. Well, it must be true if it’s coming from her, right? She’s right, I need to do something different. Have no idea why but ok, let’s do this.

I would have thought this irreversible moment would have been bigger, more explicit, maybe more dramatic and life-changing. But no, it was casual and hardly noticeable. Because we don’t just wake up one day and realize we’re not us anymore. It happens over time. A comment here, a suggestion there, a social media post or two here and there and everywhere. It happens by believing in our own words or someone else’s words about who we are.

Maybe it’s the anxiety or depression that makes a person ruminate over mistakes, over simple conversations, over everything, really. Maybe being a weirdo kid makes you hyper-aware as an adult. Whatever it is, it’s helped me realize the power of words and their ability to create and sustain magic, or to destroy it.

So here is a reminder, both to myself and to you as to why I am doing this, writing these words, telling you my stories. It’s because mental health starts with the words we tell ourselves and tell each other.

It’s because the truth is all I’m interested in believing anymore.

*My parents were never in the secret service. However, around that age, my mom did convince me she was in a witness protective program.