Permission to be Me

Today I had the pleasure of scrolling through my twitter feed and finding a depression in me that could fill the Grand Canyon.

My legs don’t look like that in jeans, my boyfriend (or lack of one)  never brings me huge bouquiets of flowers, I can’t really say I’m failing or my teachers hate me, or my parents for that matter.   I’ve never had my heart tragically broken or been suicidal.  I don’t stay up till midnight at Taco Bell with the “everyone else” and I hate to procrastinate.

So what does this say about me?   That fact that I utterly suck at relating to others my age?

It says that I am boring, fat, nerdy and incredably geeky.  I spend way too much time with my parents and am a teacher’s-pet.  My goody-girlness is sickening and I need to loose my V-Card like last week.   I am poor and work too much, then too little.   My taste in music is all wrong, as is my taste in clothes.   Because I actually read the assigned books for class, I am totally uncool, and my analysis’ are not shallow enough.

So why do I keep reading this if I am getting these messages?

I have convinced myself that if I hang out in the aura of the ones who’ve got it figured out, that I will get it figured out too.  Isn’t that sick?  Its a shame that I’m not the only one.  A complete shame.  In the back of my mind, way back there with hope and optimisim, I know I am a beautiful, smart and soon-to-be-successful girl who doesn’t need a boyfriend or iPhone to be happy.

But Hope and Optimism have tiny voices and are sadly not heard most of the time.  I listen to pessimism and the others in the put downer clique.

Today I am adding it to my list of improvements:  Be Happy With Who You Are, You Don’t Need To Figure It Out.

I need to get me figured out and know that my legs look fantastic and you learn a whole lot from your mom and dad.  It’s okay to do well in school and go to bed at ten.

I give myself permission.


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