Hola, hola.

This is my first go at something of this nature, so I suppose its obligatory that I turn up the narcissisum and witter on about myself.

I'm twenty-eight, I live in a southern state here in the U.S., I have breasts, and at this particular moment I'm terribly, terribly bored.  I was clinically diagnosed with hypomania last February, although, I fought tooth and nail to remain unmedicated and instead dove into some cognitive therapy. It went very well, despite my no longer visiting my therapist.

And that, may prove to be my undoing.  Like most hypomaniacs, I've always been a bit too amped, a bit too excited, and a bit too 'everywhere' with my projects and ideas. To be truthful, I like it. Very much. Maybe not so much the habitual insomnia (although that's when the best ideas hit).  As of late though, I've been going down a dark, dark road. I don't fall into severe depression often. In fact, I've only had one bad episode my entire life.  Even having said that, I feel myself skipping down that dark path more and more each day.

I've always been an overachiever. And while not an attention-whore, I've always sought some kind of acceptance from my parents. Namely my mother. It would be fitting to mention at this point that my mother is diagnosed with a type one (I believe) bipolar disorder.  Needless to say, our interactions are always loads of fun.  But, I digress.

Growing up, I would say I was one of those kids that high-maintenance people tend to like. Quiet, obedient, and self-sufficient. I loved writing stories (short and a few which span tens of five-subject notebooks), drawing, and music.  Music has always influenced a lot of things I do. I always joke with friends that its my soundtrack. Check the playlist playing and you'll know my mood … Have you noticed how often I get off subject yet?

I'm the eldest of four and I matured at the age of ten. Which is why I'm probably experiencing what some call a 'prolonged adolesence'. I'd always been too serious. Too well-mannered. Too stoic, especially for a child. My grandmother said then (and still now) I'm an old soul. Being the first isn't always the best, at least I feel that way.  I was a 'pill baby', which spells 'accident'. Which means that when I arrived, no one was ready. Everyone had to make haste to see to my needs, which left little time for the 'extra-curriculars'. My mother was seventeen when she had me. I don't doubt she did all she could (and maybe even more) at the time. But in hindsight, I think a large part of my bleak perception of my family lies in that I never got to enjoy the things my siblings would later take for granted. But I did, and still do, show my appreciation for everything given to me.

My parents were career parents. Which makes sense as our little family grew fairly quick. My oldest younger brother was born four years later, my sistern a year after him, and finally my baby brother .. nearly fourteen years later. I should note here that the strongest relationship I have amongst them all is with my youngest little brother. I truly do adore him. I like to think that if/when I have a child of my own, he'll share my little brother's spirit … and annoying habits.

Back on subject. I was the first, so, naturally when the others came along … there was more free time to be spent.  More money to be shilled on crazy amounts of toys. And with the arrival of my oldest younger brother, the 'first boy' syndrome. I had a hard time dealing with that … a very hard time.  You see, while I'm no prodigy, not by a long shot, I was very good at some things in my younger years. Namely, drawing and writing. I could copy simple cartoons and illustrations freehand. I even made a little comic strip, once, featuring my favorite Mortal Kombat characters.  That's when it began.

I'd never done anything like that before, either. Took my several naptimes throughout the week to finish it. When I presented it to my mother she said it was cute. My little brother placed a sheet of paper atop his Spongebob trapperkeeper, traced it, and earned a spot on the refridgerator. I know, its silly to remember petty things like this, although, I sometimes feel it was things like this that cut me the deepest. I'd make the honor roll, join sports I hated, and all just to get some recognition from my parents. And I did, every now and again. But, it just wasn't enough. Not when I watched them fawn over the others and praise them for every little thing. It hurt, and even now as an adult, it still hurts.

There were times, once I'd entered into high school, when I'd be punished or talked down to from my father for bringing home a 'C'. Both my oldest younger brother and sister dropped out of high school. Between middle school and my senior year of high school I'd done nearly everything there was to do as an extra-curricular activity. I was on the volleyball team. I was on the track team. I was a cheerleader. I was in the band. I was a member of the Key Club.  I was vice-president of the National French Honor Society, an active member of the French Club. I tutored my own small 5th grade class in French during my senior year. My mother came to one game during my tour in the band. One game. Everything that I did, even pushing myself to try and stand out was done in vain.

I don't know why I feel as though I need some form of acceptance from my mother. I know, I sound like the conventional drama-queen babbling on as to how, "Mommy doesn't love me." Sometimes, no matter how old you become, that's all you want, or need, to be happy with yourself. I am not a martyr, I just don't understand why I can't get what I need from her. I'm not a perfectionist, not in the least, but I feel I have to be in order to get something from her. I've let it spin out of control so badly that I have never even gained the courage to tell her I was raped. To tell her of the molestation I endured as a child. I don't want to be a vicitm, and, I don't want to appear weak. In fact, the only person with whom I confide is my therapist. Its sickening, even for me, to fear telling my mother I needed her, but, I felt as if she'd turn me away.

I have worked myself into a quarter-life crisis trying to figure out why I get this feeling of hatred from my mother. I don't know if I'm projecting or what (although my therapist did meet with her, and my 'feeling' isn't unfounded, hehe). I suppose I'm here, writing about minor points in my life with the hopes that someone will comment. That someone will say something. Tell me to brush it off and get on with my life. Is this natural? Am I being too sensitive?

Like most things I write nowadays this has turned out to be a great mess of disjointed thoughts. I hope you endured, heh, at least I have, eh?

I'll attempt to keep this up to date, as I'll admit writing some of these fleetings thoughts down did give me a new spin on introspection.

I look forward to reading your blog submissions as well!



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