Brenna Without Borders

I stopped writing.

It happens from time to time. It starts with me going on a rampage of building my blog and gathering affiliates and writing all the Instagram posts; making my life look interesting and building a following. That is what seemed to matter most. It was like a ticking time bomb. I got caught up in the comparison. I got discouraged that no one was reading. I told myself that no one cared. That my blog could never do anything to help anyone. And then I cut myself off. The stories I was telling myself as I was hustling and bustling to grow this blog, were terrible lies about who I was and my self-worth. As it was growing and building – I was fading into a very dark place.

Once I hit the bottom, it’s hard to come back up. The bottom of my very dark self-pity hole leads me to believe that this is where I am meant to live and stay. That my blog will be nothing. That I will be nothing. I can’t find any bit of light. Some call it depression. Though my hole is usually self-inflicted by all the stories I tell myself.

My hole of self-pity is the reason, along with many others, that I am therapy. In therapy we talk about the lies I tell myself. The lies that I think others are thinking about me. The stories I tell myself about me and my dark depression hole, and all my big feelings. Stories like “I’m the only person in my life that feels like this” and “everyone thinks I’m crazy for caring so much.”

The irony of being in this hole during one of the most exciting times of my life is painful. Yep – I’m getting married this year -to one of the greatest humans I have ever met. We are planning a big Catholic wedding in my hometown. With flower arches and a big dress. A cookie table of course. It’s going to be beautiful. Perfect. One-of-kind in my opinion. But man – the lies get big around planning a wedding. I want the day to be perfect for not just me, but my parents and my bridesmaids. The vendors serving the food. People pleaser much? The whole experience has me asking myself what do I really want? Like if I were to step away, tell myself to not consider everyone else and their feelings, what would make me happy?

I don’t really have an answer to that question. But these stories, these lies that I am telling myself that were dictating my every move, are also really starting to free me. I never realized how many terrible lies I told about myself. Each lie I confront, each story I start to rewrite, pulls me a little higher out of my self-pity hole. I am starting to see the light again.

I’m writing again. This time, I’m writing for me. To tell the stories of my life. Even if these stories I tell are just for me to read. These stories are true. These stories are full of genuine human emotion. These stories are mine and I get to dictate the ending.