Part One

 

 

 

 

Writing has been my outlet since I was a young child. It has been the way I have privately documented my pain and struggles. I have always kept notebooks to express myself and to put into words the aloneness, rejection, and depression that have been a burden that seemed too much to bear at times.

 

I spent most of middle and high school being bullied. My confidence was shot and I spent most of my time at school hunched over my desk, leaving me an easy target. Most of my classmates called me the hunchback. It destroyed me inside and made me want to hide even more. I never told my parents or anyone about the nickname. My pain was covered by my goofiness and not to serious attitude. I wasn't a drinker or smoker, my parents didn't have tons of money, and I lacked the emotional support I craved. Growing up, it was emotions that made you weak, and I never wanted appear weak to the outsider. It was important that I buried myself, not letting anything "real" about me show. Nobody could hurt me if I never let them in.

 

As a 31-year-old woman, I look back at my youth, It is heartbreaking, to see the girl who distanced herself from most. I spent most of my weekends locked in my room listening to music and writing. Dreaming of the person I wanted to be. Happy moments in my childhood don't jump out like they do for most. I loved spending time camping with my grandparents and with my aunt, these were the places I could hide and be myself. The world didn't seem to be able to rip me apart in these safe places.

 

I'm not sure if I am ready to talk about my abandonment and self-worth issues comfortably yet. My biological father never was in my life, nor has he ever made too much of an effort. I think my Mom saw a lot of him in me, causing her to resent me. I felt like an outsider often in my own mixed family and lacked direction. For the record, I love my mother and I know she did the best she did.

 

But I was self destructive, things that I now look back on and grasp to understand continue to haunt me. Spending my senior year and my two years out of high school with a boy who was physically and emotionally abusive still baffles my mind. It took me until about two years ago to admit to the fact that he had at one point raped me. After the break-up, I spent the next few years drinking heavily and making choices that still make me wonder why? Often, the only thing I thought I could control was my weight, which turned into an eating disorder. And money?  It's only now that I am beginning to try to get my life on the track of making good financial decisions, my credit is destroyed.  

 

My health is something that never I can seem to get on track, at 19, doctor's found two lime sized ovarian cysts and a tumor in my left ovary. Since, I have had two other surgeries. At 23, I learned that I would never physically be able to get pregnant and have my own children. The affects on my mental health are embarrassing, if I thought my depression and anxiety could be bad, just add in a flair up of my endometriosis.  I deal with pain management often and have had to deal with the fact that my near future does involve the removal of my uterus and ovaries. But the pain is not the worst symptom, to feel like a victim of your body. Especially, when you live an active lifestyle.

 

Wow. Okay, that was heavy. 

 

Life is not perfect. God, how I know that. 

 

This isn't a sympathy posting. This is my life, and writing is my therapy.

 

My Instagram used to be the lies of who I was, pictures that had no real value or meaning. Three years ago, I deleted everything off my handle that weren't true to who I am. I vowed to be as honest as possible with my postings. No, I won't lie to you, I have used tags and hashtags to help market myself, but I do it to help more see my journey just in case it helps someone. Someone who is probably suffering in silence. You see, it's the people who you don't expect that are probably suffering the most.

 

Okay, now you are thinking, why the hell is she sharing all of this back story?

 

I am sharing this because it is a part of my journey.

 

I have been having a tough go of it this Spring and Summer. I feel like a failure. These grand plans to move to Smith Rock and become "Alpine As Fuck" seem to have not gone that way. Truly, I thought I wanted to be a guide and thought it could translate into a non-profit.

 

I don't want to guide, that is what I do know after this season.

 

Climbing became more of a chore for me while living at the bivy for the past 6 months. Yes, I lived at the Smith Rock Campground and Skull Hollow for the past 6 months. I feel back into self-hatred the first few months. Thoughts that plagued my mind: I am too fat, too out of shape, not good enough, and everyone knows what a joke you are.  My endometriosis and depression have been a struggle since before I left Seattle, like a bad habit, I covered it up.

 

Hiking into the park the first few months were a struggle. I was self conscious, everyone was so much better than I am. Did I really have any business even being here? Why is it the one thing that once brought me such happiness and joy was now feeling shameful and embarrassing? I cried, a lot. Paul, felt helpless in his attempts to comfort me. I considered getting in my car more times then I  can remember those first few months. I felt as if I didn't fit in and everyone could see what a phony I was.

 

Who am I?

 

Really, I am asking myself this again.

 

 

(to be continued....)